


Thistle & Weeds

by Lapin



Series: The Nearest We Can Come [1]
Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Alkali Lake Aftermath, Alternate Canon, Brotherhood, Deception, F/M, Love at First Sight, M/M, SHIELD, Sexual Content, Tattoos, Threats
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2013-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 21:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 129,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapin/pseuds/Lapin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Kurt, the world is what you see, and when he falls in love, love is all he sees. For Mortimer, better known as Toad, the world is full of deception. He covers himself in thorns, and fights for what he believes in. (Sometimes, he believes in love, too) The war between humans and mutants has begun, but just because you have a common enemy, doesn't mean you're on the same side, and even love can't bridge some gaps. Can it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N Another Rare Pair. I do so love the idea of these two, and I have no idea why. I'm very interested in the idea of physically mutated mutants, and how they perceive the world, I suppose. It's all well and good for a human-appearing telepath to believe in peace, but what about the ones who can't hide? The ones who feel justifiable anger and hatred toward the world at large deserve their say too, I think. It is still a love story though, at its heart. (That doesn't guarantee a happy ending though)
> 
> Another thing is that the Scottish and their use of the English language are strange. I made my very best attempt, but if any Scots see glaring errors, feel free to point them out and mock me accordingly. The same for the Germans, though I do have a few German nitpickers already.
> 
> The canon for this is post-X2 with the assumption that X-Men: First Class is canon. Now, because of that, Wolverine: Origins is not a part of this canon, because the timeline with Emma Frost does not fit. This is alternate canon from X3, and though some events might happen, they are not guaranteed. Along with that, Marvel Movie Canon (Captain America, Thor, Iron Man, etc.) is applicable. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I am in no way affiliated with the Marvel corporation and express no ownership over it or the characters used. I profit in no way from this use. The title is taken from the song of the same name, from the Mumford & Sons 2009 album _Sigh No More_. I express no affiliation with the band or their label, and express no ownership. You should still go listen to it though. Go on, go listen. It's quite good.

For Kurt Wagner, a good run is a necessity of life, and the park nearby gives him a challenge, the canopy of old hardwood trees overgrown, thick and twisted, full of vines and other climbers. The place is almost as wild as home, and he loves it. Out here, he's alone, the smell of the forest masking the town, just him and the trees. Just him, down on all fours, inhuman and strange and simply himself. For two months he's had the run of this forest.

Until tonight.

He catches the scent before he hears them, and even then, he only hears because he knows he is not alone. The scent is male, with just a trace of aftershave, and a kind of wet, earthy smell that lingers just enough to detect. The sounds put him maybe two meters to Kurt's right.

“Hello?” He asks, cautious.

The other laughs, low and raspy, but there's no malice.

“Something I can help you with?”

There's a tease there, Kurt unable to help himself even now when he should be a little more cautious. The man is up in the trees like him, and from the shadows, the way he's holding his body so easily, Kurt is almost positive he's a mutant too. No human can hold themselves like that, at least not in Kurt's experience.

“Nothing in particular.” The words are English, but the accent isn't American.

“A race then, my friend?” He offers, licking his lips. It's the way the other man holds himself in the trees, the way he's followed so easily, that makes Kurt offer.

“If you like.” The other says. “Where to?”

“The end of the park.” Kurt points, in the direction of the southern gates. “Winner picks the prize?”

The shadow of a man moves, all his weight on his arms, the branch creaking. “Alright then. Agreed.”

“Good,” Kurt flips upside down by his tail. “Go!” He disappears and appears on his feet a branch ahead, leaping through the air, confident of the branches ahead of him. Behind him, he hears a colorful stream of swearing, then the sounds of his opponent following.

The man, the other mutant, is quick, agile, just as talented as Kurt. He moves through the trees with the same amount of skill, swinging up and over branches, keeping up with Kurt like it is nothing. No matter how much he speeds up, the other is only a step behind, like a shadow.

No one has ever kept up with Kurt.

It is invigorating.

The gates appear ahead, and he tumbles out of the trees, landing on his feet with ease, then dashing on all fours to slam his hand up against the stone. A second too slow, his competitor touches it, and Kurt gets a clear look at him at last.

He's white, with black eyes, and dark green hair. He's clean-shaven, but his skin has an odd look to it. Not slimy, not exactly, just a kind of wet cast, almost green, but not quite. He's as tall as Kurt, or as tall as Kurt would be if he stood straight, but not as lean. Definitely more muscular under his black clothes, shoulders wider and arms thicker, stronger, but still not a big man, like Kurt. 

“You cheated.” He accuses, his tongue flicking over his teeth. It's green, to Kurt's surprise.

“I did not. We never said that our talents were prohibited. You were perfectly welcome to use your own.” Kurt smiles, pleased, but his new friend practically leers, making him withdraw, just a tad.

“Trust me, love, you wouldn't want me to do that.” The _love_ is what gives him away, helping Kurt place him a little better.

“You are...” Kurt struggles for the correct guess still, because there's a curious upward lilt to the sentence he's can't quite understand. “English?”

“Scottish, close enough. Went to uni in England though.” _Uni_ is university, that much Kurt knows.

“You are far from home.”

“You're further.” Kurt has to agree, and he nods, laughing. “So Blue, what's your prize?”

 _Blue_ , it makes him smile. “Your name, my friend.”

“That's all you want?” The man still has his hand against the wall, and he leans over, so now he's angled over Kurt, still smirking. “I'd give you that for free.” There's the sound of a promise there, and Kurt knows the man sees his embarrassment. His lips quirk, and he backs off, standing straight, pulling his jacket down. “But if that's what you want, it's Mortimer. What's yours, Blue?”

“Kurt Wagner.” He introduces himself with a flourish, out of habit. “But in the Munich Circus, I was known as the Incredible Nightcrawler.” Mortimer raises an eyebrow. His face is wonderfully expressive, Kurt sees, his whole face involved with even the smallest expression.

“You like that name then?” He's got the beginning of a laugh at the end, for some reason.

“Kurt?”

“Nightcrawler. You know what that means in English, right?”

“My mother named me. Because I am as dark as the night, and I can crawl on the walls. She liked the way it sounded.” Kurt explains, confused as Mortimer snickers. “This is one of those times I have made a mistake with my English, isn't it?” He's perpetually doing that, even now, after years of speaking the language.

“Don't worry about it, love.” Mortimer says. “Come on, I'll take you out. There's a coffee shop down the way that's open.”

“I should be...” He trails off as Mortimer turns to him, frowning.

“Got a curfew then? A missus waiting?” He tilts his head. “Or maybe a mister?” Kurt feels the heat rush to his face, and he hopes Mortimer can't see it. He shakes his head in answer. “The place is mutant-friendly. We won't have any trouble. Promise.”

Kurt wants to. He wants to sit with Mortimer and talk, see Mortimer smile some more with his expressive face. And it's Saturday night, he has no reason to be up in the morning. So he nods.

“That would be fun, I think.”

Mortimer smiles, and his heart jumps into his throat. A wonderfully expressive face, yes. Wonderfully.

In the shop, the small, privately-owned affair with the bright blue and pink awning Kurt has passed a dozen times, Mortimer orders for the both of them, black coffee with a pitcher of cream to the side. Kurt proceeds to pour half the pitcher in once they sit down in one of the booths, and then three spoonfuls of sugar. Mortimer watches with a smile, as he drinks his black.

“I like it sweet.” Kurt says, self-conscious, but Mortimer doesn't seem to mind.

“Whatever you want, pet.” _Pet_ rolls off his tongue so easily, a sensible part of Kurt won't dare read anything into it. Another smaller part glows, the black eyes on him so intense, the smile that turns up the corners of his mouth mischievous and fun and enthralling. He wants to smile, and he does, minding his fangs as he does.

The waitress brings a tray full of pastries, all laid out to be as pretty as possible, not that Kurt cares. He has a sweet tooth a mile wide, evidenced by the three silver caps he has on his teeth.

“Thank you,” he says politely, and the waitress smiles, showing a mouth full of odd, translucent teeth.

“We just made the danishes, and the jam is local. They're our best thing.” She's really talking to Mortimer he sees, but Mortimer doesn't seem to notice. His black eyes are still on Kurt.

“Cheers,” he offers to the lingering girl.

“So, you're British?” She asks, smiling even wider.

“Scottish.” Mortimer corrects, shrugging off his black coat.

“I've always wanted to go to Scotland.” She says breathily, and now Mortimer seems to hear the flirtatious tone. He glances at Kurt with a smirk before looking up at her.

“Yeah? Kurt here likes Scotland too, don't you, love?” Kurt thinks about Scotland, and the snow, and the wildness, and he nods eagerly.

“Very beautiful.” But the girl isn't flirting anymore. Something about what Mortimer said made her blush, like she's embarrassed.

“Well, call me if you two need anything.” Then she hurries away, and says something to the girl at the register, something that makes her giggle at the waitress.

“You really like Scotland?” Mortimer is smiling at him now, in a way he didn't smile at the girl, and it distracts Kurt from the other two. The way he smiles envelopes his whole face, brightens his eyes. It removes everything but him from Kurt's mind.

“I was only there for two weeks." He says, owning up quickly before Mortimer thinks he knows the country better than he does. "The circus went through. But in Scotland, I was able to go out in the towns, and no one was afraid of me. The people were very welcoming, very kind.” They had been, in their own way. Unlike the unfailingly polite England, the townspeople had been open in their curiousity regarding Kurt, had asked him all sorts of questions. One might think it rude, but honestly, it had been refreshing for Kurt, to have people just _ask_ instead of stare from under their eyelashes and whisper where they thought he couldn't hear. He'd liked the Scots, and their openness. He'd liked their land more though, the air of wildness even in the cities, the way it still felt untamed. He'd liked that a lot.

“Takes more than you to put any fear in a Scot, Blue.” Mortimer says with a smirk, taking a drink of his coffee, as he tilts his head at Kurt. “People often scared of you?”

“Sometimes. Less so now.” He sighs to himself. “You have to feel sorry for them. So afraid of the world around them.” So afraid of Kurt and his family, so closed-minded. It confused him, more than anything else.

“I don't feel sorry for any of them.” There's a bitterness there, and Kurt can't stop himself from reaching out and taking his free hand. He realizes after that it's inappropriate, when Mortimer looks down at their hands, that he doesn't know Mortimer well enough to touch him. But he carries on, regardless.

“People are sometimes afraid of you as well, aren't they?” Mortimer gives no indication of a yes or no, but Kurt already knows the answer. “As amazing as you are, as your abilities are, and they are so small-minded they can't see it. Don't you feel sad for them, for their blindness?”

“You really mean that, don't you?” He laughs, and Kurt feels Mortimer's fingers curl with his for a minute, but then he lets go, to pick up his coffee mug again. Kurt pulls his rosary out of his pocket, and shows it to him.

“Faith helps, more than you know.” He shrugs, self-deprecating even with his faith, but he's found that's the correct way to present himself to strangers over the years. He's encountered too many not of the Catholic faith who are almost offended at his religion, for reasons he can't quite understand, and he doesn't want to risk a bad reaction from Mortimer.

He wants Mortimer to like him.

“You're _Catholic_." He sounds amazed, eyeing the rosary. "After what they said about mutants?” He doesn't like the way Mortimer says it, like it wasn't just mutants he wanted to include in that sentence. Nor does he like the way his eyes shutter over, his shoulders stiffening. Kurt wonders why, but then puts two and two together, as he remembers Mortimer's hand curling with his, the way he didn't call the waitress 'love', the way he leaned over Kurt. Oh, he thinks. Oh, and there's a bright burst in his chest he can't explain just yet.

He smiles, because _oh_. “The church is not God. They are only men. And men make mistakes.” He meets Mortimer's eyes, holds them. “And they are wrong about me, in more ways than one.”

 _Please_ , and this is a prayer to God. A quick, selfish one, but a prayer, nonetheless.

“Doesn't that drive you mad?”

“I know God loves me. No matter what they say, that will never change.” That is what he's been taught for as long as he can remember, and he has no intention of hearing the words from others, ones who say his kind are abominations, are evil by default. God loves him, this he knows.

Mortimer suddenly chuckles, and puts his mug down. “You're infuriating. You really don't hate anyone, do you?”

“No.” Kurt says, with a smile. “That is enough of that, now." The subject is uncomfortable, and he doesn't wish to delve too deep. "You said before, I wouldn't like it if you used your own talents. What can you do?” Kurt is eager to ask, and not just for the change of subject, as he pulls his legs up into the seat, so he can sit tailor-style in the booth, more comfortable for him then letting his feet be flat on the floor.

“Oh, that. Well, there's what you saw. Agility, all that. I can climb walls. My tongue is prehensile.” Kurt frowns. He doesn't know that word, but thankfully, Mortimer correctly interprets the expression. “Uh, strong. I can make it extend. But what I meant was another trick of mine. If I think about it, I can make my spit as hard as cement. Handy trick, at times.”

“You saw my only trick.” Kurt says, with a shrug. He thinks he'd like to see Mortimer's abilities, see his tongue. He knows he wants to compete with him again, test their similar talents against one another. This is the first time he's been challenged by another on his own ground, and he won't deny he loved every second of it. To be so alone, for so long, can he be blamed? He wants to know this man who matches him so easily, who smiles at him like this. God help him, he does.

“That is an interesting trick. How far can you go?”

“The furthest I ever traveled was three kilometers, when I was very afraid. But that was one time. I have to see where I am going, generally. To go without, it tires me, and I could end up inside a wall, or in another person even. And taking other people with me is very hard. I can take one, if I concentrate very hard. There was one time, I had to take six people back and forth, one at a time. I was exhausted after, even though I was only moving ten meters, normally nothing for me. And they were only children.” He chooses not to elaborate on why he had to move those children so quickly.

“So could you move me?” Kurt looks him up and down, thinking. He wants to say yes, but though Mortimer is not a large man, he is not a small man either.

“If I concentrated, very hard, and was very determined. Do not ask me to try though.” He answers honestly. He wishes he could say for sure, but he doesn't know Mortimer very well, and with the way he moved, he's a lot of dense muscle. He can't risk it.

“So what effects it?” Mortimer seems genuinely curious, and Kurt's only too happy to talk. No one ever really wants to hear about his ability, or his limits. Even Ororo, his friend, finds his chatter annoying at times.

“Weight, and volume, mostly. Anything over, maybe, um, one hundred kilos, is impossible for me, for the most part.” Mortimer seems disappointed, but it passes. Kurt helps himself to a danish, and finds the girl right. It's perfect, and he's only too happy to eat the sweets, a rare find in the school, with so many children to compete with. A beer would be nice too, he thinks, but that seems unlikely in this place, with the odd laws of this country.

“How old are you then?” Mortimer asks, swirling his coffee cup like a tea cup, a British mannerism that makes Kurt smile. 

“I am twenty-eight.” Kurt says, after he swallows. “I just turned. You?”

“Twenty-six. Almost twenty-seven.” Mortimer says. “Do you work?”

Embarrassed, Kurt shifts, knees drawn in. “Ah, in a way. I've been teaching, sort of. Do you know Charles Xavier?” It seems like every older mutant Kurt meets has heard of Charles Xavier, in some form or another.

“I've heard the name.” Mortimer says, as he scans the cafe. There's a rowdy group of vaguely familiar teenagers in a corner, and Mortimer seems tense, until one turns her hair blue and spiky. Then he relaxes, half-smiles at them. Kurt wonders how long he's mistrusted humans. Maybe his whole life. “Can't say I know much about him.”

“He runs a school, for young mutants,” Kurt says, picking at an odd kind of pastry, shaped like a flower. “To help them learn to use their abilities. I have been helping the students with more physical abilities. And I have been teaching German, as a second language. It is the first time I have had a job since I left the circus. It is very different.” In the circus, there were children, the children of the other performers, but they played together, and stayed out of the adults' way unless it was time for training. Kurt only ever dealt with maybe three or four at once. And Xavier's teenagers were not like the ones he was used to.

“Christ, I might kill myself.” Mortimer says, and he looks like he means it. “I didn't like teenagers when I was a teenager." He frowns, watching Kurt. "Here, love, it's one of their own things, let me show you,” he takes over for Kurt, and spreads some of the yellow stuff from the bowl on the pastry. “Try it like that.” Kurt does, and mulls over the taste. The yellow is lemon curd, he realizes, and the pastry isn't dissimilar from a scone.

“Lemon and lavender?” He asks, and Mortimer nods. “I like this.” He takes more, and eats, his stomach growling now from the earlier exercise. Lemon and lavender, he never would have thought, but he does like it. “So, what do you do?”

“Me?” Kurt nods, and Mortimer shrugs. “I'm an engineer," and now Kurt feels inadequate, in an odd sort of way. "I do a lot of independent contracting though. Sometimes I get invited back to my university, for research, or lectures.”

“You're very smart then.” Kurt says, a little awed, but Mortimer shakes his head.

“I'm good with machines. Math, physics. Everything else, I'm shit at. I cheated on my A-Levels, not going to lie.” Kurt's just the tiniest bit scandalized at the way he so casually admits it, but he laughs all the same, and Mortimer smiles at him, enough to make Kurt's heart beat too fast again. “You like teaching?”

“It suits me, I think," he says, with a shrug. "Many of the children are very angry, very hurt. I try to help them let go of their anger. They're all so young, too young to be so angry.” All those students, he thinks, who do not speak to their parents or even their siblings, who sulk in his classes, like rebellion, almost, only quieter. Those parents, so unlike his own mother, who ignore their own children, like they're ashamed of them, their own flesh and blood. That, Kurt cannot understand.

“I'm sure they've got plenty of reasons.” There's a dark look in Mortimer's eyes, but it fades as quickly as it came. “So what was that about a circus?” Kurt grins, despite the quiet knowledge that Mortimer only wants to change the subject as quickly as possible.

“I was a performer, in the Munich Circus. You see, my mother, she is uh,” Kurt struggles for the English word. “She sees people's futures? I do not know the English word," he admits sheepishly. 

Mortimer only takes a sip of his coffee, as he says, “She's a precog. Short for 'precognition', in English."

“Yes, that." Kurt replies gratefully. "She is the fortune teller for the circus I grew up in. When I was given to her, it was obvious I had very different gifts. But the circus is full of many mutants, and three of the acrobats had similar abilities. They trained me to be an acrobat, from when I was very little. I became the star.” He's proud of it, and it shows, but he hopes Mortimer doesn't see it as arrogance, hopes he sees nothing negative in Kurt.

Mortimer doesn't seem to care at all, actually, as he says, “You liked it.” Like it's a fact, like he knows already. 

“I loved it." Kurt admits, laughing a little himself at the idea, how silly it is to love such a useless career when he is admittedly doing something now that is of more importance. "I could use my abilities openly, and I was with other mutants. It was wonderful.” His smile fades, and he takes another sip of his coffee. “I miss them very much.”

“Why'd you leave, then?” 

He shrugs. “The circus was sold to an American. That's how I ended up here.” Kurt frowns, saddened, wondering if what he is about to say is appropriate for a first meeting. “He was not as enlightened as our previous owner. He did not want me in the center ring.”

“Where did he want you?” Mortimer sounds like he already has an idea though.

“In a cage. He said I belonged in a freak show.” It makes him sad to think of it, how the man had looked at him, how he had ignored the pleas and reasoning of the others for his own prejudices. “My family, the circus, would have none of that. But if they went against him, they would have lost their livelihoods. So I left. I stayed in a church in Boston for a time. It was old, abandoned. And then my friend Ororo found me, and took me to Professor Xavier's school.” He leaves out the more important bits. He doesn't want to scare him, nor does he think a lot of it is his story to tell. Not Jean Grey's, at least. 

“I'm sorry, love.” Again with the endearment, as Mortimer takes his hand this time, and the harmless word, it makes Kurt's chest far too tight as he blinks away from this man, and his eyes. “I'm sorry you were treated like that.” Kurt doesn't want Mortimer to let go, wants their fingers to stay joined, as just this touch makes his heart swell up until it presses on his lungs, his ribs, take over every thought.

“You asked me if there was anyone waiting for me.” Kurt says, instead of taking his hand back. “There isn't. But maybe there is someone waiting for you?” He wants to know now if he's getting his hopes up. He's never not known what it meant, the way his heart pounded when Andre, one of the fire-eaters, paid attention to him. But it's never been anything he was brave enough to explore, or has ever been offered, really. He's had a total of two women in his life, and he doesn't know what the rules are here, if Mortimer's flirting in earnest or not, if the way he holds Kurt's hand means anything at all.

Mortimer smiles again, in the way that extends to his whole face, and the hold on Kurt's hand changes, goes from comforting to something else altogether.

“No, love. There's no one waiting for me.” Kurt can't help the smile that spreads on his face, and Mortimer seems just as happy. “So, love, have to ask, what are the marks for?” He traces his fingers through the air, over Kurt's face, head tilted.

“They are angelic symbols.” He pushes his sleeve up, to show the ones on his forearm. “The archangel Gabriel gave them to mankind. My skin cannot hold ink, as we found. The needle couldn't penetrate. My aunt was a, um, tattooed woman? In the circus? She tried to give me the first one, but it did not work. So I came up with my own way.” His own way to hold the symbols that meant so much to him, the ones that answered his prayers, his Hail Marys and Our Fathers. 

Mortimer holds his forearm, looking at the design appreciatively as he follows the swirls with the fingers of his other hand, raising goosebumps on Kurt's skin. His fingers are cold, very much so, but Kurt doesn't mind.

“So you used heat.”

“You can see that?”

“Engineer.” He reminds him, as he flicks his eyes up to Kurt, grinning. “I know brands when I see them. Bigger fan of ink, when it comes to body art, but this is good work. You did these free-hand?” Kurt nods. “How many do you have?”

“My arms, my face. I did these,” he gestures to the ones on his cheeks, “With a mirror. And my chest of course.”

“I'd like to see those.” Mortimer says, in a way Kurt can only hope is as flirtatious as his heart thinks it is. “Why the angel Gabriel?”

“One for every sin.” Kurt tells him, grinning. “I have sinned quite a bit.” Mortimer laughs, and releases Kurt's arm. “You have uh, ink, then? Tattoos?”

“Guess you'll find out, won't you?” Definitely flirtatious.

“And how will I do that?” Kurt teases, playing along.

“I can think of a few ways.”

There's a loud sneeze, and a fireball flies over their heads. Mortimer ducks, and Kurt opens his eyes upside down, hanging from the overhead lamp. He flips over back into his seat, looking behind him, trying to see where it had come from.

“Oh my god, I'm so sorry!” One of the girls in the back has her hands over her mouth, her face crimson in her embarrassment. Her friends are laughing at her as she sinks down into the booth, eyes scrunched close.

“Hey, watch it with that in here!” The girl at the register says, holding the fireball, still burning bright, in some kind of bubble-gum pink bubble. Deprived of oxygen, it's slowly burning out. “What if you set the place on fire?”

“I'm so sorry, sometimes it happens when I sneeze, or cough,” she pleads, as one of her friends pats her back comfortingly. “I'm so sorry, I'll be careful, I promise.”

“Have to say, there were times I hated looking like this.” Mortimer muses aloud. “But then there are times I can think, well, could have been worse. I could light my flat on fire anytime someone brings 'round a rabbit.”

Kurt can't help but laugh, though he feels sorry for the poor thing. He thinks he knows her, thinks she might be an older student. Xavier has so many, Kurt can't remember them all.

“When I was younger, and I got sick, every time I sneezed, I would teleport. I once ended up on top of of the big tent.” He'd been twelve, feverish and miserable. His mother had laughed until she had tears in her eyes, while he had curled up under his covers, now miserable and wet. Mortimer seems to like that story too, chuckling quietly. “Are you telling me you had perfect control, right from birth?”

“I didn't say that.” Mortimer says. “I implied it.”

“That doesn't make it any less of a lie.” Kurt says, and Mortimer grins, putting down his now empty cup. “There was something, wasn't there? What?”

“Alright, yeah.” He admits. “When I turned about, I think twelve, my skin changed. Started giving off this kind of sticky stuff. Didn't know what it was. So one day, I was climbing the walls again, 'cause I was bored, see? My mum comes in, starts screaming at me loud enough to make a banshee cry. Turns out the stuff was acidic. Was making the wallpaper peel right off the walls where I had touched it. I had to re-paper the whole sitting room, and I was grounded.” He fluffs his hair up, grins. “Didn't learn to control it til I was fourteen. Couldn't touch other people for a bit there. Now I just let it happen when I need it to.”

“Why would you need your skin to be acidic?” Kurt asks, curious.

“Makes my work easier sometimes, is all.”

Music goes off, and Mortimer starts digging in his coat, pulling out a mobile.

“Just a moment, swear.” He holds it up to his ear, looking irritated, while Kurt tries to find something to occupy himself, feeling awkward. “Yeah?” Kurt hears a voice, low and gravelly, on the other end. “No, I'm busy. See, I can do this thing, where I have conversations with other people. It's called 'intelligence'. I realize that's a big word for you though.” The voice growls something incomprehensible, and Mortimer sneers, then hangs up. “Sorry, coworker of mine.”

“You do not like him?” Mortimer shrugs.

“He has his uses. Mainly, lifting heavy things. Oh, and he's good at...” Mortimer feigns at thinking. “Lifting heavy things.”

“You have no patience for people you think are stupid.” Kurt chides.

“Not my fault," Mortimer says, with a wince, and checks his phone again. Kurt wonders if he's boring him, as Mortimer frowns at the thing. “They're going to close soon. We better clear out.” The teenagers are already packing up, and he notices the way the two girls working are watching them all with impatient faces.

“Oh, sorry.” He starts rummaging in his pocket for money. Though they lived in the mansion, the Professor did pay them something, and he's sure he has a few dollars in his coat somewhere.

“I already paid, love.” Mortimer assures him, standing.

“Then let me give you something,” Kurt insists, but Mortimer's hand on his arm stops him.

“I asked you. That's the way it works.” Like a date, Kurt realizes, too happily.

“Thank you,” he says, and Mortimer looks like he's thinking of doing something rather sudden, something Kurt wants too. He barely knows this man, he reminds himself, but his heart doesn't hear a word of it, as his face tilts of its own accord.

“Mr. Wagner?” One of the teenagers breaks the moment. Kurt studies his face, and recognizes him as one of the newer students, a boy named Todd. “We're heading back to the school. Do you want to walk with us?”

Kurt bites his lip, not sure how to say 'no', but Mortimer answers for him.

“I have to be off, love,” he says. “Do you have a phone?” Kurt does, though Ororo and him are still trying to figure out how to do anything other than text and play games on them. “Let me see it,”

Kurt hands it over, and Mortimer quickly taps the screen, entering his number presumably, then passes it back.

“We'll be in touch, yeah?” Kurt nods, and Mortimer leaves with a wave of his hand.

Kurt leaves with the children, and finds himself smiling as one girl berates Todd for asking Kurt to walk them home.

“He was on a date, you idiot!” She hisses, obviously thinking Kurt can't hear her.

“With who? He was just with that guy.” The girl, Amber, Kurt remembers at last, groans.

“That _was_ his date,” another boy says.

“Professor Wagner isn't a fag!” Todd says, loud enough Kurt can't pretend not to hear. The other children fall silent as Kurt turns to him, Todd's face defiant in the darkness.

“That is a very unkind word, Todd.” He says. “I would ask that you do not use it anymore, please.”

“Are you?” Todd demands.

“It's none of your business anyway.” Amber says, storming past him, and Kurt. Kurt sighs, and follows her, the other children trailing like ducklings behind him.

-

Mortimer keeps checking his mobile, the odd feeling in his stomach refusing to dissipate. Kurt's number is taunting him.

“So his range is minimal?” Magneto asks, looking disappointed.

“I can see him being great in combat, but not for what you want.” Mortimer says. “And honestly, I don't even see him in combat. Gentle as a lamb, that one. All about God, and forgiveness.”

“That is a disappointment.” Magneto sighs, but shrugs as well. “There are other teleporters, I suppose. I had thought Mr. Wagner would be the best option considering, well, certain factors.”

“I guess.” Mortimer doesn't know what to say, really. He keeps looking at the number.

“Toad?”

“Sorry, you were saying?” He asks, snapping back to attention.

“Perhaps there's more to him than you saw. He was frighteningly efficient in the White House. He took out over a dozen armed and trained guards, after all. Even you and Mystique would find that impossible.” Mortimer nods, because Magneto's right. He normally is. “Meet with him again. Try to see if you can find some anger in there.”

“Yes sir.” He agrees, slipping his mobile back into his pocket.

“And Toad?” He turns back, and he doesn't like the look on Magneto's face, the odd appraising look that seems doubtful of him. “Is there something I should worry about?”

“No.” He says, with a shake of his head. “Nothing at all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer draws up some new plans, Pyro gets his first lesson, and Kurt is invited out for a drink.

Mortimer is trying to work.

But the steady, and endlessly irritating, snap and click of a lighter is starting to drive him a little mad.

“Can I help you?” He asks, looking over his shoulder at the boy.

 _Snap, click_. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” He's building an exoskeleton, as asked by the boss.

The boy shrugs. “I don't know. I wasn't good at school.”

“Then maybe you should have stayed in it until you were.” Mortimer has never been accused of being overly patient, and he doesn't much care. Stupid people make him want to grind his teeth, and this boy is no exception. He's a smart-mouthed little thing, and too quick to temper in a fight. He doesn't like people who can't control themselves.

He's been accused multiple times of not liking really anyone.

“Like you stayed in school?” The boy accuses, in a rather nasty tone.

“I have a nice, shiny degree, thank you very much.” He replies sharply, trying to concentrate on the task at hand still.

The boy frowns, does the stupid snapping and clicking with his lighter again. “In what?” Mortimer huffs and rolls his eyes.

“In _philosophy_ , what do you think?” He gestures down at the delicate wiring and machinery, while the boy screws up his face, like he's confused. Mortimer imagines it isn't a new feeling for him.

"It's so cheering to see you two bonding.” Mystique, his beautiful savior, strides in with a smirk on her face. "I always say you need more friends, Toad."

“Since when did we start recruiting from the playground?” He asks, as she leans on his table, looking over his work so far, one bare scaled hip right by his elbow.

“Weren't you only seventeen?” She asks, with a raised brow.

“I wasn't a pain in the arse.” He points out, rightfully so. He'd been at university already, after flying through college, and he'd been useful.

"You and I remember seventeen-year-old you very differently." She replies, but leaves it at that.

“What do you want then?” He asks, a little put out by the comparison between them. She looks over at the designs he has pinned to the white boards, his own block-lettering detailing parts, functions. He has more written on the boards themselves, new ideas that have occurred to him while he works, improvements for the next version of this one.

“How soon until you're done?”

“Another week or so. Why?”

“Our new friend here is going to need some enhancements.” She indicates the boy, still doing that aggravating noise with his lighter. “He can't create the fire. And his current method is too inconvenient.”

“Hm.” Mortimer thinks for a moment. “You, c'mere.”

“How about a please?” He demands, and that's the last straw. Mortimer grabs him around the ankle with his tongue, and drags him over, the boy smacking the ground, crying out in shock. At his feet, his eyes are wide as he stares up at Mortimer, Mystique smirking beside him.

“Please.” He says, hoping the boy doesn't need the point made again. “Get up.” The boy gets to his feet, scowling. “Hold out your arms.”

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.” The boy does it, and Mortimer watches, trying to see how he moves, how he stands. “How much weight can you carry? If you had to carry it all the time?”

“I don't know.” That's decidedly unhelpful.

“How much do you need? Just a spark, or do you need a flame? What about fuel?”

“I can get enough from a cigarette to get started. And as long as there's oxygen, and stuff to burn, I can keep it going. Lighter fluid gives me a better start with it.” A cigarette isn't much, Mortimer thinks. And if Pyro can carry about five kilos every day, all day, and keep his range of movement, he could give him enough spark and fuel to bring down a city.

“Does it hurt you? Fire?”

“No.” Pyro's face is rather wicked as he says it, and an uneasy feeling steals over him. He's not scared of the boy. He's got more than enough tricks up his sleeve to put him down if need be. It's just that he doesn't much like the idea of being trapped in what could easily be a giant convection oven with him. Kids these days.

“Which does the boss want done first?” He asks, instead of lingering on that thought. “Exoskeleton, or something for Sparky here?”

“My name is Pyro.” The boy growls. “How would you like it if I called you Frog?”

The boy's demeanor changes as he feels the screwdriver pointing into his neck. “Let me remind you boy, just because you've got yourself a real nifty power, doesn't mean you're invulnerable. And you're going to be depending on me for a lot of things in your near future. So my suggestion to you is, drop the attitude. You're not making any friends like that, understand?” He leans in close enough to smell the obnoxious body wash he uses. "Little hint, Sparky, you want me to be your friend."

“I'm not scared of you.”

“A mistake many have made and few have had the chance to learn from, Pyro.” Magneto is standing in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. “Toad?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I believe you've made your point.”

He releases the boy with a flourish and a grin, but Magneto raises his eyebrows in warning. He's going to get a talking-to later then. Probably something about not tormenting the children.

Magneto smiles, and puts a hand on the boy's shoulder. “Can you make what our young friend needs?” He asks, as the boy eases under his hand. 

Mortimer shrugs. “Easy. Would take me about a week to build something that could be used reliably in a fight. And then he'd have to adjust to it. But yeah, it's doable.”

“Then outfit our young friend here first. The exoskeleton has no rush.” That wasn't what he'd said before, but Mortimer knows better than to question his leader, especially over something so trivial. “I'd like a private word with you later though.” Mortimer nods.

“Yes, sir.” Magneto leaves them to it, continuing on to his office. Mystique watches him go, then turns to Mortimer.

“What does he want to speak to you about?”

“He said 'private' for a reason.” He says, and her eyes narrow.

“Toad, what has Erik asked you to do?” Christ, she's suspicious now.

“Nothing you need to be worried about, alright? Just, the less people know, the safer.” For him, he finishes mentally. If it came down to it, he had a good chance of winning a fight with Mystique. They're evenly matched on strength, and if she's more agile and a more skilled fighter, he's got a more offensive mutation to back him up. But he'd rather not get knocked around by her, thank you very much, and he has no idea how she feels about this whole idea, how she feels about Kurt.

“Why does he need you for it?”

“Are you jealous?” He asks, grinning, digging into his coat for his pack. He's been craving a smoke for a few hours now, just hadn't wanted to stop what he was doing. Now's a good opportunity, and it makes him seem more casual, more like himself, leaving her with little to suspect.

“Of the man who eats birds whole?”

“Don't knock it til you've tried it.” He says, feeling more at ease with the first hit of nicotine. “Scared the ever loving fuck out of him, didn't I?”

“Yes, your carnival trick was terribly frightening.” She mocks, as she walks around his worktable, eyeing his notes.

“What's yours, stand there and look _terribly_ blue?” He gets a smack for his trouble, but she's smiling.

“Are you going to get started on Pyro's device?” He nods, and holds out his hand, gesturing for the firebug to come back to him. “Need help?”

“Wouldn't say no to some competent help.” She hands him a measuring tape, as he gets the boy to hold his arms up, so he can makes some preliminary sketches. “You think you could carry five to ten kilos every day?” He asks the boy.

“I don't know what that is.”

“About ten to twenty pounds.” Mystique says, and Pyro shrugs.

“Why do you Americans have to have your own damn system? It doesn't even make sense.” He muses aloud. He's fallen out of the habit almost entirely, especially when it comes to work.

“Toad, if this is going to become one of your 'stupid Americans' rants, I assure you, I have them memorized.”

“He hasn't heard them.”

“I'm not even an American.” Pyro pipes in, still playing with the lighter. That's a surprise to Mortimer, and Mystique too. “My parents are Australian. I was born there.”

“What are you doing here then?” Mortimer asks, as he writes down Pyro's measurements.

“My parents died when I was five.” He doesn't sound like he likes talking about it. “I got sent over here to live with my aunt, and that lasted all of a month before I turned the burner on the stove into a bird. Xavier was there the next day.” Mortimer and Mystique exchange a look.

“Charles is good at taking in the unwanted of the world.” That's not what Mortimer expected her to say, and he frowns. Since when was Xavier 'Charles' for her? “Did you grow up in the school then?” 

Pyro nods.

“Yeah. Storm took care of me though, for the most part.” He sounds upset now, and he starts flicking the damn lighter again. It's a nervous gesture, Mortimer realizes, but that doesn't make it any less annoying. He turns and closes his hand around it, taking his cigarette out with the other.

“Has anyone ever told you how irritating that is?”

The boy shifts, looking uneasy, and Mortimer releases him. He closes the lighter and puts it in his pocket.

“Besides, I can make you something better than that.” He starts thinking, and draws out a quick sketch, holding his cigarette with his right hand, of a pack that stretches across the back, with tubes that attach at the arm, and a quick igniter at the end. It's a skeleton of what he'll end up building, but now he has a visual, something to build on.

“So, what? I can wear it?” Pyro is leaning over it, a little too close to Mortimer for his comfort, but acceptable.

“Yeah. Two igniters, in case one goes out. Simple pull, instead of a lighter. This'll work better. I'll make the back as strong as I can, so no one blows you sky high.” That is a risk, he thinks, but he doesn't want to chance putting the carriers on his arms, not just yet. Maybe after he sees Pyro in action, sees how he moves when he fights, he'll have a better idea.

“I thought about something like this.” He says, and Mortimer makes an interested noise, telling him to continue. “The Professor said we shouldn't think of using our powers like that.”

“And that's why he has Cerebro to enhance his.” Mortimer says, and sees Mystique's agreement. “I need to see how you use your powers before I get anything definite. And I don't mean you showing off, I need to see you fight someone.”

“Isn't that dangerous?”

“There's always Sabretooth.” Mystique suggests, but Mortimer shakes his head.

“You know he can't control himself. He'd run poor Sparky here right through.” Pyro doesn't disagree with the name this time, and Mortimer can bet he's more concerned about having to be in the same room as the Furball, alone. Mortimer himself wouldn't like that too much.

“Can I please not do that?”

“What's wrong Sparky?” He asks. “Scared of the big bad pussy cat?”

“No, I'm scared of the psychopathic pussy cat.” He says, and Mortimer grins. “You know he's on fifteen countries' most wanted lists? Why do you work with him?”

“I'm on this country's most wanted. Would help if they knew my name, of course.” Mortimer knows it's different though. He's on the list for murder and terrorist activity. Sabretooth's rap sheet is longer than he is tall, and not for such noble reasons. “He's useful, is all. We need some muscle, he's got it in spades.”

“Am I going to end up on one of those lists?”

“Probably.” He doesn't want to lie to the kid. “Truth be told, I saw your little fiasco in Boston on the news. Trust me, you're already on a list. And you need to get a better handle on that temper of yours.”

“They shot Logan in the head!”

“And he heals.” Mortimer says, remaining calm. “Not saying I don't enjoy seeing the law getting a little back, but you shouldn't be doing that so much in broad daylight.”

“What would you have done?”

“I wouldn't have gone to the house of someone who would call the cops on me.” He's got the kid there, and Mystique smiles as she shakes her head. “Look, kid, you need to get over the idea of being a criminal in the eyes of the law. We're doing horribly illegal things, and eventually, you'll get caught.”

“Have you been caught?” Mortimer takes a drag of his cigarette, and thanks god for long sleeves, hiding what he'd rather the kid didn't see.

“Yeah. I have.” The kid's not as stupid as he seems, and he doesn't push anymore. “Alright, we're not going to play with fire, but let me see what you've got.” He puts out his cigarette and shrugs off his coat, throwing it over his work chair.

“What, you want me to fight you?” The kid looks scared, but not of Mortimer.

“You want to fight her?” He asks, tilting his head at Mystique. She smiles, and Pyro flinches. “Didn't think so.”

“What do you need, Toad?” Mystique asks.

“Remember the way he moves, which arm comes up first, how they move away from his torso, that kind of thing.” She shifts into a perfect replica of Pyro, except for the smile, and waits. “Alright Sparky, come on,”

“I don't want to hurt you.” He's got his lighter in his hand, and Mortimer almost sighs at his stupidity. He grabs it with his tongue, Pyro diving for it, but too slow, and he shows it to him.

“Tsk-tsk, Sparky. Rule Number One, do not let me know what you need. The way you handle this thing is a tell, and anyone with half a brain will be able to work that out. And now it's mine, isn't it? Everything depends on you getting this back. How you going to?”

“I can't come at you.” He says, pursing his lips. His voice has a waver in it, but he's thinking, and that's good.

“Why?”

“Because you're faster. You'll just jump away.”

“You don't know that though. What would you do if you didn't know me?”

Pyro runs forward suddenly, and Mortimer lets him. The boy swings, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mystique imitate it, memorize it. He catches him, and gives him a good punch in the stomach. He wheezes, falling away, and Mystique imitates that too, how the boy acts when he's in pain.

“Asshole,” He gasps, and Mortimer smirks, crouching down so that they're eye level.

“Rule Number Two, don't ever underestimate a man. You think because you're a mutant, it means you're automatically superior. You're not. I don't even need my abilities to beat you, and there are plenty of humans who are just as skilled as me. Getting killed by arrogance is not a good way to go out.”

“Did you have to hit me that hard?”

“Actually, yes.” The boy scowls and stands straight, Mystique his mirror beside them. “Try again.” He orders, standing.

The boy swings low this time, going for Mortimer's abdomen, but Mortimer was waiting for it. He twists, grabs the boy by the scruff of his neck, and brings his knee up, not breaking his nose, but bloodying it, then lets him fall.

Mystique rolls in imitation, then climbs to her feet as Mortimer leans over the boy.

“Predictable. And word of advice? Swinging for me like that is a big mistake.” He holds down a hand, and the mostly blinded boy takes it, lets Mortimer pull him to his feet.

“Why? Why is it a mistake?” Mortimer pulls him close by yanking him in, keeping his forearm in a solid lock. “Holy fuck,” The kid swears, struggling, his eyes regaining focus as the sting fades. Now he's awed, and a little scared, as he stares at Mortimer.

“Part of my mutation is enhanced strength. I can lift twice what a human man my size can. You hit me there, only thing you're going to do is aggravate me. Never assume you know your enemy just by looking at them.”

“Okay,” He says, and Mortimer releases him so he can wipe his face off. Even that gesture, Mystique mimics, so they know how he bends his hands.

“What've you got for me?” He asks her, picking up his pencil off the table.

She shows him, like an instant replay of Pyro, the way he moved his legs, his upper body. Mortimer sketches a more flexible design, to adapt to the way Pyro twists his whole body when he strikes, and crosses out the material he was planning on using for the tubing. He needs something that will stretch for how the boy extends his arms and flexes his wrists.

“He needs training,” She says, when he's no longer paying attention to her. She shifts back to her own form, and rests her hip against the table, looking over his new design.

“So train him.” He feels her glare, and glances up at her. “What?”

“That's not happening.” He sighs, and runs his hand through his hair.

“Alright, here's the thing. I do have to sleep at some point. Boss wants this exoskeleton done, now he wants a starter for Pyro, which I have to get done quick, and he has another job for me, which looks like it's going to be taking up a lot of my time. Not to mention, I have to upgrade the system here again.”

“I could upgrade the system.” She offers.

“You could also train the kid.”

“I don't like children.”

“You trained me.” He says, starting to feel exasperation with her.

“That was ten years ago.” She says. “And you were considerably less annoying.”

“Or maybe you're just getting old.” He blows a kiss as she glares at him, and goes back to what his designs. “Just show the kid some hand-to-hand stuff, basic. Boss can probably work out how we'll train those powers of his. Maybe something like Domino's range?”

“Maybe.” She says. “How is she, by the way?”

“She'll be heading back our way in a week, or so. You know how she is. She's got messages from some people too.” Mystique nods, but doesn't leave, maybe bored, and hoping Mortimer will have something else for her to do. Or maybe she hopes he'll have to hit Pyro again.

Mortimer wonders a little, looking at her. He looks kind of like her, he thinks, the coloring the same. But the expressions, and the light in their eyes, were completely different. Mystique was hard, to her core, and even when she smiled, it was like steel shining in the sunlight. Kurt's smile had been soft, open, but almost shy, in the way he tilted his head down as he did it. He'd been sweet in a way he didn't think Mystique had ever been, the way he reached for Mortimer's hand, just to comfort him. The way he'd smiled as he'd eaten, like everything made him happy. Like Mortimer made him happy just by paying attention to him.

“So, what next?” Pyro is back, his face clean, his nose swollen.

“You sit pretty and let me make a prototype.”

“That's like a first draft, right?”

“So you do know something.” Mortimer says, playing at impressed while he smiles at the kid.

“It's not like I'm stupid.” He says, defensive.

“Never said you were.” Mortimer erases a line, changing the shape of the pack. “You're the one who said you weren't good at school.”

“That doesn't mean I'm stupid.” This kid's got some kind of complex, Mortimer realizes. Someone's been making him feel like he's not good enough, like he's lacking. Terrible thing to do to a kid, he thinks. Makes for an angry adult, and not the good kind of anger.

“Okay, look, kid, when I was sixteen, I had to take these examinations back home, called GCSEs, and I had to cheat on two of them. Literature and English. I'm absolute shit at both of them. And when I took my A-Levels, I had to cheat, because I had to take the Latin one.” He smirks as Pyro raises his eyebrows in a very impressed-teenager way. 

“So you're telling me to cheat?”

“I'm telling you everyone has their strengths. Just because I don't know or care what a past participle is, doesn't make me stupid.”

“That you like to eat birds make you stupid.” Mystique says, as she boosts herself onto his table to sit. Mortimer frowns at her.

“I'm sorry, this coming from the woman who walks around naked in snow?”

She sneers at him and he sneers right back.

“Here, kid,” he pushes a blank sheet of paper and a pencil across to him. “You like drawing, don't you?” The design on the lighter is hand-done, he noticed.

“Yeah.”

Pyro sits with them, drawing nonsense designs, and watching as Mortimer works, maybe waiting to get his lighter back. Mortimer isn't in the mood to listen to him flick it anymore though, so it stays safely in his pocket.

“What do you want to do for dinner?” Mystique asks, as she files her nails.

“Food.” He says, and feels her irritated glare.

“I like Chinese.” Pyro says, and Mortimer nods.

“I don't care.” Mortimer says again. “Might be going out tonight anyway.”

“Where?” Pyro asks.

“My god, do you actually have a date?” Mystique asks, in a very bored way.

“Might.” He hedges. He's not sure if Magneto wants him out again tonight, and going on 'dates' would be a good cover for his nighttime disappearances. And they are kind of like dates. Maybe. Kurt looked like he was interested, at least.

“I will never understand how you get men to go out with you,” She says, blowing on her nails.

“You're gay?” Pyro asks, in a very faux-casual way.

“Look, you're perceptive.” He drawls.

“Toad,” His head snaps up to look at their leader, standing in the doorway again. “If I could have a moment of your time now.” He stands, and starts to make his way over, hearing Mystique slide off the table behind him as he does. “A word _alone_.” This is directed at her, and Mortimer just catches the way her eyes widen in confusion for a second.

His own private concerns grow.

In Magneto's study, after the doors shut, he voices them.

“You really don't want her to know what you've got me doing, do you?” He asks, and he gets his answer in the way his leader looks at the door, as though to make sure it's completely closed. “Look, I'll do what you tell me, you know that. But if I'm going to wake up with a knife in my gut for my trouble, I'd like a bit of warning.”

“Are you truly that loyal to me, Toad?” Magneto seems a little amused by that. “That you would risk the wrath of Mystique?”

“I can handle Mystique. I just need to know she's coming, is all.”

Magneto frowns, and drums his fingers on his desk for a moment.

“The situation is complicated. Mystique has never before shown much interest in her children, but after meeting Kurt as an adult, I suddenly find that changed. She's expressed curiosity about the man. I find I am less sure of what her reactions will be.” Mortimer understands that, but his mind has caught on something else.

“You said 'children'. She has more than one?”

“Trust you to hear every detail, Toad.”

“Isn't that what you have me for?” Magneto smiles at him.

“I suppose so.” Mortimer isn't sure where this is going, what exactly Magneto wants him to do. “The others are not your concern, for the time being. To be honest, I have no idea who, or where, they are. Kurt was always different, I suppose. She kept tabs on him, observed him at times. I should have known meeting him would spark something in her.”

“You telling me the plan is off?”

“No. I'm telling you to be careful, and watch what you say. I doubt you have to worry about waking 'with a knife in your gut', but still, better safe than sorry.” Mortimer hears 'better alive than dead' as the undercurrent in that warning, and he takes it to heart. “In any case, I would like you to meet with him again, soon.”

“There's got to be a better way than this. Lying to him, I mean.” Mortimer regrets it the moment it's out of his mouth, because it shows more than he'd rather admit.

“Should we just tell Charles Xavier we're attempting to steal one of his X-Men out from under him?” He's right, of course he's right, but that doesn't mean Mortimer likes it. “You've never been one to shy away from deception, Toad. What's bothering you about this?”

“He's really not like either of them, you know?” He's not sure why it matters, why he cares what happens to Kurt. He's really not that kind of man. But he feels like deceiving Kurt isn't too dissimilar from kicking a dog, and he doesn't like the way it makes him feel.

“Children aren't always mirrors of their parents, Toad.” Magneto reminds him.

“I know that.” He does, more than most. Neither of his parents were mutants, and neither possessed his aptitude for machines. His mum taught poetry, and his father tended bar. To them, his comprehension of maths and science had been as foreign as his black eyes.

“Toad, I ask again, is this a problem?” Magneto worries too much, he thinks.

“No. No problem. I just don't think he's worth this much effort, is all.”

“And I think he is. So this continues, until I am convinced one way or the other. Am I understood?”

“Yes, perfectly.”

“Good.” He sits in his chair, studying the papers in front of him. They're documents about the newest attempt at mutant registration here in the U.S., and they put a shiver down his spine. His country wouldn't dream of it, registering people like cattle, but then, maybe they've got longer memories than these stupid Americans. Maybe they still remember what happened to the last group of people who got put on lists like that.

Mortimer knows he does.

And he won't sit idly by while his own kind is slaughtered by ignorant bastards in suits and ties. He won't be like this country, sitting on the sidelines while genocide was committed, because they didn't want to get their hands dirty. He can't be that kind of man.

“You want me to give him a ring then?”

“Yes, I would.” Magneto looks pleased with him, but that doesn't erase the uneasy feeling he's been carrying since the night before.

“I'll get on that.” He says, and Magneto nods, dismissing him.

Out in the main room, he walks past the two, getting out his pack again, so they'll think he just wants a quiet smoke. Which he does, but he also wants privacy.

He puts a good deal of distance between himself and the compound. Once he's half a mile out, he closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, scenting the air while he listens. Around him, he hears the sounds of the forest, nothing bigger than a rabbit within hearing range. There's no scent either, no prying ears or eyes.

So he lights up, inhales, and gets out his phone.

-

Kurt's listening to Ororo, as she tells a story to the younger children, one about how the hyena got his limp, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. He teleports away, to the balcony, where the children can't hear, when he sees the name display, but it takes him another moment to answer it, the screen insisting it was locked.

“ _Guten tag_?” He asks, confused, hoping he's answering it right. He's never actually had a phone before now.

“ _You always answer the phone in German?_ ” A voice, Mortimer's, asks, in accented German.

“You speak German!” He declares, in English, pleased. “Why did you not say?”

“You didn't ask. I speak it well enough.” Mortimer pauses, and Kurt hears him inhale. He's smoking, he realizes. “Listen, what are you up to tonight?”

“Nothing, I suppose.” He's gone over the homework assignments already, and there's really nothing to do here at night. Ororo and the other adults all have a handle on the nightly patrols, and the needs of the children.

“I would bet you wouldn't say no to a drink, would you?”

“No, I would not.” Xavier won't risk alcohol in the building, not with so many children, a curious Americanism he wouldn't of thought an Englishman would cater to. They are his rules though, and Kurt will follow them. “But, I do not think we would be welcome in many places here.” He means that in two ways, one definite, and one he's hoping for.

“Oh, love, your doubt wounds me. I know a place. You want to meet me there?”

“Of course, yes.” He winces at how eager he sounds, but to be able to go out and have a drink is more exciting than it should be at this point. “What is the address?”

Mortimer rattles it off, and Kurt recites it back, memorizing it.

“Can you get there?”

“Yes, no trouble.”

“Alright, I'm about an hour out, so I'll see you then.” The phone goes quiet, as Mortimer ends the call, and Kurt can't fight the smile on his face. He teleports back inside, beside Ororo, who has gotten used to him. The children still gasp when he does it though, at least these young ones, and he waves.

“You look happy,” she says, with a curious smile.

“I am going out, with a friend. I will be back later.”

“Alright.” She says, still with the smile. “I'll see you in the morning then. Be careful.”

“I will.” He disappears, thinking of the staircase, then up to the landing, then on his bed, through his open bedroom door.

He changes into something warmer, and more suited for being out of the school. In his bathroom, he looks at his reflection, but he's still decidedly blue with fangs. He brushes his teeth, in any case. Then he looks out his window, and opens his eyes in the trees.

On his phone, he brings up the map feature Ororo had showed him the day before, and puts in the address, so it tells him where to go. Then he's off, teleporting ahead as far as he can see, following the line on the map, as his location jumps on it.

He reaches the bar, out past the city lines. It's a small building, with neon out front that advertises various alcohols, and a gravel parking lot full of cars. There's a motorcycle too, and Mortimer is leaning against it, the cherry of his cigarette glowing in the darkness.

Kurt teleports down, so that he's crouched on the bike, behind Mortimer, and the man nearly drops his cigarette in surprise.

“Jesus Christ, going to give me a heart attack doing that.”

“Smoking is bad for you.” Kurt lectures cheekily.

“So is people scaring the fuck out of me.” He refutes, taking a drag, obviously just to be contrary.

“Is this yours?” He asks, looking down at the bike. It's black, with a lean design he doesn't recognize.

“No, I stole it.” Mortimer drawls, but there's a smile there. “Yeah, love, built this myself. My own design.”

“You really are very smart, aren't you?”

“Told you, just good with machines.” He puts the cigarette out on the gravel, and offers Kurt a hand. “Come on, I think I need a drink just as bad as you probably do.”

“I doubt that.” Kurt says, taking the offered help, even if he doesn't need it. “I have not had a beer in five months.”

“Are you kidding me? You're German,” Mortimer is laughing at him, and he turns to him, scowling.

“What are you saying about Germans?”

“I'm saying you have national holidays dedicated to drinking. Your German ancestors are going to rise from the grave, and be very, very disappointed in you,” he's really laughing now, and Kurt shoves at him in jest, not quite managing to keep a straight face.

“Your people light things on fire for fun,” Mortimer grabs his forearms to stop him from pushing at him, still laughing, “So you will stop besmirching the name of Germany, we are a wonderful place, and your men wear skirts,”

“First off, kilts, and don't think you can get away with that,” Mortimer is very close, he realizes, his hands still around Kurt's forearms, Kurt pressed right up against him. “And second off, make me.”

“I could,” he says, feeling a little daring.

“How are you planning on doing that?” Mortimer asks, and yes, there's a teasing offer there for Kurt.

So Kurt kisses him, quickly, then backs away, Mortimer looking at him with wide eyes. “We should go inside.” Kurt says, grinning. “I want to know if they have anything worth drinking. Not just McEwans.”

“What?” Mortimer looks a little shaken. “Wait, was that a slight on Scottish beer?”

“I don't know,” Kurt says, walking backwards, grinning. “Is that the one that tastes like watered down American ale?”

“Oh, you're done,” Mortimer swears, and with speed Kurt didn't know he had, he bounds forward and grabs a hold of him, an arm around his waist that pushes them together. “If you ever compare Scottish beer to American again, you will regret it, I promise. And also,”

With his other hand, he tilts Kurt's face, and just like that, they're kissing again, only this time it's not quick, or surprising. He clenches his hands in Mortimer's shirt to keep them from shaking, because he's so afraid he's about to do something wrong. He's never kissed a man before, not before a moment ago, and it's been a long time since he's kissed a woman.

It's a simple, close-mouthed kiss though, and it only lasts a moment, as Mortimer withdraws, his eyes half-closed as he looks at Kurt.

He can taste Mortimer's cigarette when he licks his lips. The taste of ash, strange to him.

“Come on then.” Mortimer says, releasing him. “Let's get a drink.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A date in the bar, and a kiss good night. These should be innocent, honest things. Why can't Mortimer do anything honest, he thinks?

The bar is filled with smoke, a surprise for Kurt. Smoking indoors has been banned in most of the European cities he'd been in, and he'd thought this state too. The music is low, with a sound that matches the smoky atmosphere, and he sees the source, a man in the corner, waving his hands through the air, light flowing from his fingers that dissipates a meter above his head. His eyes are closed, as he sways, lost in his ability on the step-up stage. 

“They call him Jukebox,” Mortimer says, leaning over to Kurt's ear. “Old-timer, he is.”

“How does he make the music?”

“I only know the theory, really. It's pretty complicated though. What do you know about science?”

“Not a lot.” Kurt admits, feeling the lack in his education. There had been no one really proficient in that area in the circus. 

“Alright,” Mortimer says, leading him with a hand on the small of his back to a booth. “How do I explain this? He's kind of pulling on the air, making vibrations. You understand?”

Kurt shakes his head, not wanting to lie, as he sits on one side and Mortimer the other. 

“It's kind of like how you teleport, love. No one really understands how a lot of abilities happen, considering how some of them defy the laws of physics. But you know how the joke goes; if it's alive, it's biology, if it blows up, it's chemistry, and if it doesn't work, it's physics.” 

“No.” Kurt says quietly, and Mortimer raises an eyebrow. “I did not know that joke.” 

“Fuck, forgot. Sorry, pet. Don't know if that has a German equivalent.” Kurt doesn't have the heart to say that he would never have heard it in German either. He hadn't even known science was divided like that. He decides to turn the subject away, hoping not to put him off. 

“How did you learn to speak German?” 

Mortimer takes a drag and stubs the cigarette out on the weathered table. “Was my second language, in school. I tried to take French, but my mum shut that down quick.” 

“Why?”

“ _Seemed to think I had an unfair advantage._ ” He says, in rapid French. There's still an accent, he can hear, but it's better than his own, and he grins. 

“Your mother did not want you to cheat.” Kurt teases, and Mortimer runs a hand through his hair, looking a little abashed. “You were a very naughty child, weren't you?” 

“My mum would probably say so.” He looks mischievous as he says it, and now that he's already done it twice, Kurt wants to kiss him again, especially now. 

“Mort!” Kurt sees an expression of distaste that lasts for all of a second, and then is quickly covered by a more neutral one. A man with ears as big as his head is crawling on the wall, and even Kurt is surprised by the bat-like wings that stretch between his arms and his torso. 

“Bruce.” Mortimer greets, looking up at him, as the man positions himself on the wall above their table. 

“Haven't seen you around lately. Where you been?” 

“None of your business, is where. Go on, I'm busy.” The man, Bruce, recoils, and looks at Kurt. He has huge black eyes, and Kurt can see himself in them. 

“Who are you?”

“Kurt Wagner,” he says, and the man tilts his head in a way Kurt never could. 

“Never seen you around before.”

“I am new to the area,” Kurt says, but Bruce doesn't seem to believe him. Or maybe that's just how his face looks. 

Either way, Mortimer's temper appears to have run out. “Satisfied your curiosity then?” He grabs Bruce by one of his ears, and the man yelps in pain. “Go on, Bruce,”

“I would, if you would let go, you bastard!”

“Hey!” A scaly hand slaps their table, and they all jump. It's the waitress, an older woman with green, scaled skin, and bright yellow, slit eyes. “Mortimer, I'm not having it! Not again! Let Bruce go!” Mortimer does as he's told, to Kurt's amazement, and Bruce sticks his tongue out. “And you!” Now her wrath is on Bruce. “What are you doing, sneaking about, climbing on my walls? Get back to your table, now!” 

“I'm going, I'm going!” He flips off the wall, over their hands, to stand beside her, and walks, in a curious, hobbled motion, back to his own friends. 

Mortimer eyes her, running his tongue over his teeth. “You going to take orders, or just yell, Tina?” 

“You giving me attitude there?” She demands, and Mortimer scowls at her. 

“No.” He says, and Kurt can't help but giggle at him. He gets a scowl for his indiscretion, but he's still smiling.

“Well, aren't you a sweet little thing?” She says, looking at Kurt with a considerably warmer expression. “I like your color. Lovely shade of blue there.”

“Thank you,” he says, actually a little pleased. No one's ever said anything quite like that to him. “I like yours too. You are a very pretty green.” 

“Well, thank you, sweetheart. Friend of yours, Mortimer?” She sounds skeptical. 

“Yeah,” Mortimer says, looking at Kurt, the same way he'd looked at him in the parking lot. Kurt's stomach flips as he fidgets with his tail, suddenly nervous. “You could say that.”

“Ohhh,” She drags it out with a wink, her eyelid a clear membrane that slides over her eye, clouding it. “He's that kind of friend, is he? You don't ever bring that kind of friend around here.” She looks at Kurt again, smiling. “You must be something special then,”

“Are you quite done?” Mortimer asks, sounding exasperated. 

“Shush up, you. I'll be done when I'm done. Now, was that a German accent I heard?” Kurt nods, happy to be spotted. “We've only got one German beer on tap, but it's a nice dark one. That sound appetizing?”

“Yes, very, thank you.” There's no beer quite like German beer, and he's eager to have something from home. 

Mortimer opens his mouth, but Tina cuts him off. “I already know what you want. You order the same damn thing every time.” She leaves them like that, and Mortimer shakes his head. 

“I don't know why I come in here.” He says.

“Because you like it.” Kurt says, smiling. He's right, he knows he is. Mortimer is comfortable here, his shoulders relaxed as he slouches against the booth.

“Yeah, guess I do.” He agrees amiably, smiling at the bar in general. Like the cafe, the place is small, and though it's not dead, it's not full either, and the patrons are mostly keeping to themselves. The place is being kept low-lit too, and Kurt bets some of the patrons like it that way. There have been times he doesn't want to be seen. “Do you?” 

“I like being out, and not worrying.” He says, and Mortimer looks at him, tilting his head to the side.

“Thought you said you just pitied the poor, pathetic humans?”

“I do,” he says, because that's true. “But to look like I do, every day, it can be much to deal with it. Too much. Sometimes, I only want to be around our own kind, where I am normal. But then I think that is terribly wicked, to not want to try with humans, simply because it is hard.” 

“It's not wicked.” Mortimer says. “It's only natural, wanting to be with your own.”

“But then, can you not argue that humans not wanting us around is only natural?” Kurt argues, gently, not wanting to anger him. Mortimer just gets out a rather battered pack of cigarettes and lights another one, leaving the pack on the table. There's an ashtray against the wall, and he pulls that over, tapping the end of it in a gesture that looks more like habit than need. 

“Do you smoke?” He asks, and Kurt shakes his head. “That's right, smoking is bad for me, isn't it?” Kurt nods, and he smiles. “Love, humans need to get it through their thick skulls that they're obsolete. We're the next stage, and the world is ours. If anyone should be ostracized, it's them.”

“You and Professor Xavier say the same thing,” Kurt concedes. He thinks he sort of understands the idea of evolution, as the Professor had explained it to him. It makes sense. “But even if you are both right, and we are, why do we have to hate them? Can we just co-exist in peace, and let what happens happen?” 

“They don't want to co-exist with us. You think they want to go extinct? No, they're going to do their best to crush us. So we've got to fight back.” There's so much anger there, and Kurt aches for him, for whatever pain he suffered. 

“What was done to you, that you cannot see peace as an option?” 

Mortimer meets his eyes, black as pitch in here, and it's as though he's measuring Kurt up, though for what, Kurt doesn't know. 

Then he lets go of his cigarette, holding it in his mouth, and rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. 

Kurt knows he doesn't hide his horror, but he doesn't think Mortimer expected him to be able to.

They're round, about the size of a coin, and they overlap along the middle of Mortimer's arm. Further up, just below the crook of his elbow, there's one that looks like a band was wrapped around the arm, but it's not the same kind of scarring. The round ones look like burns, but the band looks like cuts. 

He touches them, gentle over the burns, and even gentler on the band. 

“That was where they had me strapped down.” He explains, his voice lacking emotion. “I struggled a lot. Would break the skin. Ended up leaving myself a permanent reminder, along with theirs.” 

“Why did someone do this to you?” He asks, aghast at the idea that this has been done to someone else, that his case might not even be unusual. Him, and Logan, and now Mortimer. 

“Why not?” He looks like he's uncomfortable, the way he looks at the scarring, so Kurt pulls his sleeve back down, all the way to his wrist. Then he intertwines their fingers, to give Mortimer something to hold, something to bring him back from the far away look in his eyes. Mortimer's hand twists, so that they're joined. 

“They're not all like that.” He tries.

“I know that. But enough of them are.” Kurt can see that if he pushes, he won't get anywhere, so he decides to let it go for now. Maybe over time, he can make progress, but not tonight.

“Alright boys, here we are,” a cheerful voice breaks in, as a dark beer in a glass is put in front of Kurt, another in front of Mortimer, and two glasses of ice water. “You planning on eating tonight?”

“Why would I eat here?” Mortimer asks, his tone light again. 

“One of these days, boy, I'm going to slap you and your mouth with a lifetime ban.” She threatens, and looks to Kurt. “What about you?” 

“No, thank you.” He says, and she shrugs, leaving them for the next table.

The beer is good, and welcome, but he finds five months without a drop has severely impacted his tolerance. Halfway through the glass, the warm, fuzzy feeling has begun, whereas before, he could down two pints. 

The music is changing, becoming darker, and Kurt listens happily, enjoying just being out. The mutants around him are open with their faces, their abilities, as they should be, he thinks. They should never have to hide, never feel like they are not made exactly as they should be. 

“I do not understand how they can say we are not right,” he says. “God made us, and God makes no mistakes.”

“God made the Devil too though, didn't he?” Mortimer asks, though it's not really a question. A French mother and a Scottish father gives Kurt the idea that Mortimer was probably raised in the Catholic faith, like Kurt. 

“The Devil, and his followers, chose their own path. God gave them free will, and they chose to fall. But us, we are born this way, made like this. We do not choose to be mutants. So God must have a purpose for us, must have made us with as much love as he did humans.” 

“You sound like my mum.” Mortimer says, with a dry laugh. “When I was a kid, we went down to England. Don't remember why. But there was this shop, see? And the clerk, he told my mum I couldn't be in there. She asked why, 'cause I think she thought maybe they didn't let kids in. And the clerk looks her right in the face and tells her 'we only cater to humans'. I still remember that, the way she went all white. Thought she was going to slap him. But she just took my hand and took me out, and we went and got ice cream. And that's what she told me, that God made me special.”

“Because he did.” Kurt agrees. “You are special, chosen by God to do something amazing.”

“And how do you know that God didn't intend me to help our kind by fighting for us?” 

“Because God wants us to love one another, regardless of our differences. Like the Good Samaritan, when he,”

“Saved his enemy.” Mortimer finishes. “I know the story, pet. But just because one Samaritan decided to be a decent bloke, doesn't erase the warfare between the two, doesn't change what happened to everyone who wasn't helped on the side of the road.”

“But it does prove that you cannot judge a whole group by the actions of some. You must hold people to a standard as individuals, not blame them all.” Mortimer shakes his head though, and Kurt sighs, realizing they've come back to the same argument. “You will never agree with me on this, will you?”

“Not likely.” He says, with a shrug. “I'm pretty set in my ways.”

“Maybe I will convince you over time.” Kurt says, giving up, the beer making him complacent.

“You planning on sticking around then?” Mortimer asks, tapping his cigarette on the ashtray.

“Do you want me to?” Kurt asks, the warmth spreading down to his fingers as he finishes his beer. 

“Yeah, think I do.” He looks so serious as he says it, like he really means it. So Kurt closes his eyes, and teleports over to Mortimer's side of the booth, right beside him. Mortimer just laughs, and moves over so that Kurt has more room, tucking him under his arm, so Kurt's head is resting on his shoulder.

Up close, Kurt can smell him again, the aftershave he wears a low scent, the tobacco and smoke of his cigarettes sticking to his shirt, and the same wet, earthy smell from before. It's like water, Kurt thinks, but not the sanitized kind that comes out of the tap. It smells like a lake, he thinks. It's a good scent, clean, and he likes it. 

“Maybe you should have taken it a little slow, yeah? Five months without a drink will kill your tolerance.”

“Hm. Yes, maybe. Too late now.” He agrees, not really as tipsy as Mortimer maybe thinks he is, but still feeling silly. “Do you miss Scotland?” He asks, wondering if Mortimer is like him in other ways, if he walks around these American cities and feels that desperate longing to return home, to hear people speak as they should. 

“Sometimes. Been all over the world, but I still go home a few times a year. See my mum, my dad, the town. Place never changes, really, so it's like I've never been gone.” He looks down at Kurt. “You miss Germany?” 

“I do. We're from Bavaria, originally though. I miss them both, very much. But there's nothing to be done about it. I have no way to support myself there, without the circus. I didn't go to school, you see. None of us did. I have no job training, no education. Here is where I must stay until I have a skill beyond swinging from a trapeze.”

“Bavaria? Isn't that where they wear those skirts, whatsit, the ones that stick out,”

“ _Dirndl_.” Kurt says. “And yes. But no one wears those, really. You're just being unfair, stereotyping.” 

“Love, I come from a country where we consider stealing cows to be an act of warfare. Don't think I have a lot of room to talk.” He's stroking Kurt's hair as he speaks, and Kurt leans into it. “Yeah, we're definitely going to have to go out for drinks often. Your German ancestors are for sure going to rise up and frown on you being a lightweight.”

“I think the saying here is 'cheap date'.” He jokes, and feels Mortimer's rumble of laughter under his ear. 

“I doubt you're that cheap.” 

“You do not know that.” Kurt teases, and pulls back, to see Mortimer raising his eyebrows in interest. “But no, I am not quite that cheap.”

“Don't be getting a man's hopes up like that.” He's still smoking with his other hand, but it's getting low, as is his beer. Two more beers appear in front of them, and Kurt drinks his, enjoying the feeling of being close to someone, of being comfortable. 

“Do you ever wonder what it would be like, to be human?” He asks, after he's halfway through his second beer and Mortimer has started on another cigarette. “To look like everyone else?” He thinks the question is fair, coming from him. 

“I don't know.” Mortimer says, and it sounds like he knows it's a denial. “Yeah, alright. When I was a kid, before I understood my abilities. I hated being so different, so abnormal. But my mum and my dad were never the kind to just let the world tell them what's what.” He takes a long drag of his cigarette, then exhales blue smoke above them. “They just let me be, and eventually, I sorted myself out. Dad taught me how to box, too. Helped a bit, that.” 

“But now?”

“I know what I am now. So it's different, isn't it?” He doesn't wait for an answer, just keeps talking. “I cannot believe anyone could look at you, and see you as anything less than what you are.” His accent is changing, getting thicker with drink. “You're brilliant, darling.” The way he says it, his voice like gravel, accent heavier by the word, makes Kurt's stomach twist in the best way possible. 

“I think you are drunk.” Kurt says, but Mortimer just laughs again. 

“Takes more than two pints. Unlike some people.” His fingers hook behind Kurt's ear, and he shivers a little at the unexpected touch. “Hello there, that a soft spot for you?” 

“I'm not used to being touched.” It's the beer, he thinks, otherwise he wouldn't have said something so inviting sounding. He should have realized his tolerance would be shot, he knows, should have been careful. He's going to feel like an idiot in the morning. Mortimer says nothing to that though, and Kurt is grateful for it. 

“What time do you have to be back?”

“What do you mean?”

“School night, isn't it? Don't you have to teach in the morning?” He does, he realizes. 

“I need to be back by midnight, I suppose.” If he's home by midnight, he can get seven hours of sleep, and handle the first class of the day without wanting to curl up on his desk and go to sleep. 

“Alright then. Let me help you home, then.” He nudges Kurt, and he takes the hint, sliding out. Standing, with his eyes open, he feels more sober, less lulled by the combination of the music and Mortimer's warmth. “Just have to settle up, won't take but a minute.” 

It isn't until after Mortimer's gone he realizes it's probably his turn to pay, but then he's back, leading Kurt out of the place, back into the parking lot, and out to his bike. 

“Where do you live?” 

“I can get home,” Kurt assures him, but Mortimer smirks, and shoves at his shoulder. He stumbles more than he should, proving Mortimer's point. “The park, where we met? The school is to the north of it, about ten kilometers or so.” Miles, he remembers, they use miles here. He has to start remembering that. 

“Alright, I think I can work that out. Can't be easy to miss.” He takes a full-face helmet off the back and hands it to Kurt. “Just keep your tail up away from the wheel, yeah?” Kurt pulls his tail in while he secures the helmet, Mortimer putting on his own, then swinging his leg over so that he sits astride it. Kurt just teleports onto it, not sure of his balance after Mortimer's push. 

Mortimer takes off as soon as Kurt is secured, the wheels of the bike crunching over the gravel before they hit the paved road. There, the ride is smooth, if not faster than they should probably be going, he thinks, but Mortimer's a good rider, and even Kurt knows the bike obviously handles well. He wonders how long Mortimer spent on it, why he built it. 

He can ask, he realizes, the next time they see each other. Mortimer would probably like getting the chance to talk about it, something he probably loves to do. Kurt never had the skill to build things, never saw how the pieces could come together to make a whole. For him, it was always the climb, the swing, the leap of faith. Being an acrobat was his life, and he was good at it, blessed with talent that no one else could claim. 

Now what can he do? He honestly doesn't know. 

Against his chest, Mortimer's back rises and falls with his every breath, and Kurt mimics his movements easily, leaning with the bike as they round corners as though he's done it a thousand times before, even if he can barely remember the last time he was on a motorcycle. For him though, to copy someone is easy, mimicry being simple. Mirroring the movements of others, something he mostly does for a joke now, is what helped him learn all the tricks of the acrobats who trained him. 

Maybe he is drunker than he thinks, because the ride seems too short for the distance they have to go, and now they're at the gates. 

Once he's off, and has the helmet off, Mortimer takes his off too. His bike is quiet, Kurt notices, amazingly quiet considering how noisy most motorcycles are. 

“Think you can get all the way up there now?” 

“Yes, _danke_ ,” he says. 

“That all I get?” Kurt frowns in confusion before he realizes what Mortimer wants. “C'mere, love.” He holds out his arm, beckoning, and Kurt walks into it, into Mortimer's space. Like this, he's taller, looking down at him, so it's Kurt that has to initiate, lean down, tilt his head, while Mortimer cups the back of his neck. 

This kiss isn't chaste, not really, because Mortimer's thumb strokes behind his ear suddenly, and he gasps against Mortimer's mouth. Mortimer uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss, and just like that, there's a needy feeling in Kurt that forces him further into Mortimer's space, despite the awkward position. 

“Knew that was a soft spot.” He mutters, breaking away. “I'll see you soon. Promise.” He straps Kurt's helmet back on the bike, then puts his own on and takes off, leaving Kurt to teleport up to the house. 

Inside, he slips into the kitchen to get a glass of water, downing it quickly. Teaching German to the children is hard enough, he doesn't need a headache on top of it. 

As he lies in bed, he's almost ashamed of how he thinks about it, the way it felt to be kissed like that. No one's ever kissed him quite like that, not with that much heat.

He touches his own collarbone, wondering how it would feel if Mortimer touched him there.

Down his sternum, over his more elaborate marks, he wonders how it would feel there, fingers tracing down the marks that no one but him has touched.

Down his stomach, where the marks stop, where he's too sensitive to want to attempt it on his own. He's always been afraid his breathing will mess him up, and the branding process is delicate. He wonders what it would be like to have hands there, actually touching him the way Mortimer seems to want to touch him.

His hand travels down, as he wonders what it would be like to be touched _there_.

-

“Christ!” 

Mortimer knows he's swearing loud enough to wake the dead, but he throws his helmet across the garage anyway, hard enough it hits the steel wall. 

He's lost his bleeding mind, that's the only explanation he has. 

“So, what did the wall do to personally offend you this time?” Mystique is leaning in the entrance to the compound, eyebrow raised in dry curiosity. 

Again, he's struck by their differences. He's known Mystique for ten years now, and he still doesn't know how she feels about him. She's closed off, protective. They flirt and play at being mates, but he doesn't doubt she'd put a knife in his back if it suited her needs. 

Kurt though, Kurt is warm and pliant, the way he tucks himself under Mortimer's arm like the spot is made for him, like Mortimer is made for him. The way he looks at him, like Mortimer is great, somehow, like he's worth every bit of Kurt's attention, of his trust. And the way he kisses him, shy, like his smile, like he's not sure what he's doing, if he should be doing it at all. 

It brings up all sorts of images in his mind, how Kurt would look in his bed, if he's still shy there, if he'll curl into Mortimer like he did outside the gates, put his arms around his neck. Fuck, how would he shiver if Mortimer kissed that spot right behind his ear? Outside the gates, when he'd gasped, when he'd curled into Mortimer, it had taken more restraint than it should have to stay on the bike, to not put the kickstand down and push Kurt up against the wall, get between his legs, do all sorts of things he shouldn't. 

Damn it all, what does he think he's playing at here? 

“Toad?” He still hasn't answered her, and she doesn't like that.

“Did you ever meet someone,” he tries, because he needs to ask someone, and she's the only option he has right now. “And know, right away, that they were trouble for you?”

“What do you mean by trouble?” She asks, looking interested. 

“You know what I mean.” 

She watches him for a moment with a neutral expression, her arms crossed across her chest, and she almost seems to be studying him. He's not sure he likes that.

“Yes, I have.” She answers at last, cautiously. 

“Right then.” He rakes his hands through his hair in frustration. “What do you do about it?” 

“Are you asking me for relationship advice?” She asks, sounding almost shocked.

“No, Christ, I just,” he wishes he had another helmet to throw. He settles for digging in his pocket and pulling out his cigarettes so he can smoke. Once he's got some nicotine in him, he feels a little more organized, his mind slotting back into order, just a bit. “I don't know what to do.” He admits, even if it's like pulling teeth to do it.

“You're serious, aren't you?” She sounds like she's laughing at him. 

“You know, you can shove it.” He says, because fuck her. This is a problem. 

“Sometimes, Toad, I just forget how young you are.” She's not being condescending, at least he doesn't think so, just observing something. 

“One of these days, I'm going to work out how old you actually are.” He promises, a promise he's made a dozen times at least. 

“If anyone can, it's you.” She sounds almost proud. He wishes he could work this woman out, figure out what exactly it is she wants. He knows what he wants out of the Brotherhood, and knows what Magneto wants, but Mystique is an enigma. Magneto is always _Erik_ to her, even though he knows for a fact they're not sharing a bed. And he also knows some things he shouldn't, some things Magneto doesn't, some things he kept to himself out of a kind of loyalty he can't quite explain. 

For one, the poison he'd given her for Cerebro was supposed to kill Charles Xavier.

And she'd only given him a third of the dose he'd given her.

It's one of those things he has no explanation for, which drives him mad, but at the same time, he thinks it's a matter he shouldn't push. After the Statue of Liberty, he'd spent all those months locked up, and by the time Mystique and Magneto had come and gotten him, their leader seemed to have forgotten. 

Still, it's just another piece that doesn't quite fit. 

“People who are trouble,” she says, “Tend to become the people we love the most. So make a decision now, before it's already made, whether you want to be in love or not.” It's all very matter-of-fact, the way she puts it, but it still makes the cacophony in Mortimer's head start up again. 

This is too much. He has to talk to Magneto, tell him it's a bad job, that Kurt won't ever fight in anyone's war. That Mortimer can't lie to him, because he's not lying to him. He likes talking to Kurt, likes Kurt's openness, his gentleness. He wants to keep seeing him, keep talking to him. He just _wants_. 

“By the way,” Mystique interrupts his thoughts, with a tone that says she's unhappy. “Sabretooth will be back in the morning.” 

“Great.” He says, with a shake of his head. “Any other waywards coming back? Beyond Domino?”

“Nothing I could discern. I can't remember everyone's codes.” It's not that she can't, he thinks, more like she won't. That's his job, as far as she's concerned, and beneath her. “Do you want to start updating the system tomorrow? If you tell me what needs to be done, I can do the work myself, while you work on Pyro's pack.” 

“Yeah, better get started on that.” He says, his mind welcoming the distraction. “I'll show you tomorrow. And we need to start training the kid, before he becomes a liability. He's got no combat training. Don't know what Xavier is doing with those kids, but it's nothing useful. Domino can help him with aim and all that, I suppose. But one of us needs to get started on some hand-to-hand for him.”

“I suppose I can help until Domino gets here.” She agrees, with a long-suffering sigh.

“Your sacrifice is much appreciated.” He says, finally feeling like he's calm enough to leave the garage, and head into the compound itself. 

“Mortimer.” He whirls in surprise, dropping his cigarette in the process. Never, in ten years, has she addressed him by his given name. The first meeting, the first time he'd seen the strange blue woman, he'd surfaced from a ten minute dive, after a near twenty-meter jump from the trees to the water, trying to get away from the crashing, growling beast following him.

She'd been sitting on the rocks, legs crossed, smiling. 

_“Quite the little Toad, aren't you?”_

The name had stuck, and he hadn't minded, but she's never said “Mortimer”, never in relation to him.

“Mortimer,” she says again, and he wonders what point she's making. “You're too young to be a soldier all the time. You need to let yourself rest.”

“Aren't you one to talk,” he says, in disbelief. 

“I know you well enough to know you've kept tabs on my movements from our bases.” He doesn't admit guilt, because he doesn't feel guilty over it. He did what he was told. “And you know where I go.” He doesn't say anything aloud, doesn't give her away, but he meets her eyes, hard and yellow, lets her know she's right, that he does know about the little house in England, about the woman who lives there. “You've kept quiet about it.”

“He said to tell him things that were relevant.” He says. “Nothing there is relevant.” 

“Which is why I'm telling you this.” She says. “You need to let yourself have something irrelevant. Or you'll end up with nothing.” She's genuinely trying to help, he sees, in her own way. She's not used to this, but she knows what to say, which makes him think she's just out of the habit. Who was she, he wonders, before she was Mystique? 

“Thanks.” He says, and she tilts her head in acknowledgment. 

“Are we done with this?”

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” She starts walking again, and he keeps pace with her, digging out his cigarettes again. “You smoke too much.” 

He lights up with a sneer, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Yes, just kill your lungs to be defiant.” 

“Thanks, I will.” 

“When you can't jump a wall anymore because you have lung cancer, I will laugh.” She says, and for a minute, they're normal, back to their usual sniping. 

But their leader is waiting, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys Mortimer's work on the exoskeleton, and the new plans for Pyro's starter. 

“There you are, Toad.” 

“Wasn't aware I had a curfew, sorry.” Magneto raises an eyebrow in dry amusement. “What is it?” 

“Come into my office, please.” He says, already walking in that direction. “We need to have another private word.”

“Yes, sir.” He follows, taking a deep inhale as he does. He's got a feeling he's going to need the nicotine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pyro starts learning how to be a useful member of the Brotherhood. On the other side, Kurt and Rogue sit down to talk about John, Miss Grey, and Mortimer.

Mortimer rises early the next day.

Outside, by the water, he rolls his shoulders in a show of flexibility no human can ever have, his bones and muscles knit together in such subtly different ways, then jumps. He pushes as hard as he can, and then controls his fall, perfect dive that cuts through the water like a knife. 

He loves the water, loves how right now, when a human's lungs would be screaming for oxygen, when most mutants' lungs would be screaming for it, all he has to do is think, concentrate on his skin, on the way it feels, and just like that, he breathes. The surface becomes inconsequential, as he tests himself, pushing his body hard, harder than he's been able to in a long time. 

This was one of the many things denied him, and that just makes him angry. 

_“I wonder what happens when we raise the heat, and take away the moisture. Perhaps you can tell me, Number Twenty-seven. Don't you want to help us, help yourself?”_

No, he thinks, his anger still so hot and consuming. No, helping himself was the least of his concerns right then. What he'd really wanted was to break the straps and rip out the doctor's throat. He'd wanted revenge, pain for pain. 

Dad always said, never let them see you blink.

He'd been so out of it when they finally came for him, the Brotherhood. All he remembers clearly is Domino and Mystique, helping him off the bed, and his boss throwing that cape around Mortimer's freezing shoulders. Domino's horrified, _“Oh, Froggie, what did they do to you?”_ Finally being warm, as the two women helped him out, just in time to see the kid test the doctors' physical limits.

He'd enjoyed that. 

He surfaces in the middle of the lake, letting himself breathe through his mouth and nose again, his skin closing, the brief tightness that always came with the action.

The sun's position tells to finish up here and get inside, so he dives again, deeper, opening his skin up again as he pushes his strength. The bottom appears in his vision, the cold water dark, but clear, this far down. 

He follows it up the incline, until he breaks the surface again. There, he swims to shore, the chill around him a good kind, full of damp. He runs the three kilometers back barefoot, trying to toughen his feet back up. All that time spent in their facility has softened him. He's still not up to weight, despite a month on the outside again, losing what little fat he had in there, down to muscle and bones. It sounded better in theory than practice, he's found. He doesn't like how sharp his figure is right now, how dark the circles around his eyes still are. He looks ill, weak.

Inside, he heads for the training room. He'll still have it to himself this early. The kid can't seem to wake up before ten, at least, and it's only gone eight now. 

He starts with movement, his body warm now from the morning's exercise. Simple boxing combinations, motions his body has memorized by this point, get his mind where it needs to be. 

He thinks about his cigarettes while he performs the repetitive motions. He knows he's been smoking more since his release, knows his cravings are worse than they ever were. It's just easier to smoke than it is to think, and the nicotine relaxes his nerves in a way he's never needed before.

Kurt doesn't seem to mind them though, kind of an oddity. Most non-smokers don't date smokers. Smell takes getting used to.

Shit.

He stops what's doing so he can scrub his hand through his wet hair, frustrated with himself. He's not dating Kurt. He's getting information, feeling him out for recruitment.

He's pretty sure wanting to shag him doesn't count as information gathering though.

He gets his staff off the wall, twirling it unnecessarily. It's a calming habit though, the motion requiring so much of his thought he can sort everything out into its own compartments. 

What compartment does Kurt go in? 

He goes through the motions like clockwork, until it's sweat making his hair wet, not the water from his swim. His muscles feel like liquid now, like they should, his body completely under his control. The staff isn't good for much, not in a real fight, not like a gun, but he likes the balance of it, the way it extends his body. He hadn't held a gun until he was eighteen, and he still isn't all that comfortable with them. They're more Domino's thing than his. 

He feels calmer, after a bit, and hangs the weapon back up, securing it in its brace. 

Christ, what is he playing at? Kurt is a damned X-Freak, and even if Mortimer didn't have ulterior motives, this would never work. If Kurt knew what Mortimer is like, really like, he could bet he'd never hear from him again. _Thou shall not kill_ , that's how it goes, right? And Mortimer can still remember the first human he'd killed, his foot crushing the bastard's throat. He'd been seventeen and terrified, and he'd been sick all over the sidewalk after.

It had been Domino who'd patted him on the back until he was done, and Riptide who'd handed him a bottle of water. 

“It's okay, _Sapito_ ,” he'd said, his name for Mortimer, as he ran his fingers through Mortimer's hair. “Everyone does, the first time.” 

Mortimer had choked out something about Azazel, how he doubted Azazel had ever flinched, and Riptide had just smiled, brushing his greying hair behind his ear. 

“You are not Azazel,” Riptide had said, and Domino had snorted something derisive about the world not handling two Azazels.

He wonders now if Riptide knows. Kurt is twenty-eight, and he knows Riptide and Azazel have been a pair for far longer than that. Is Kurt the result of an affair? Is that why they left him in a circus? Who had done the leaving?

Does Kurt even know? He'd said “given to his mother”. He has to know he's adopted, then. But does he know his birth parents?

Is there anything he's not lying to Kurt about? 

He braces himself against the wall, trying to think, but the way they'd kissed keeps coming back to the forefront of his mind. None of that is a lie, he knows that. He wants Kurt. That's not on anyone's order, that's just him being an idiot. 

He needs to get himself in order.

He smells smoke, and lighter fluid.

“Help you?” He asks, annoyed, turning to see the kid. 

“Sorry,” Pyro says, “Mystique said to see what you were doing, if you had time to train me.” 

“Give us a minute.” He says, and pushes off the wall. He can feel the kid's eyes on him as he downs some water while he wipes his face with a towel. “Something else?”

“No, no,” Pyro says, but Mortimer sees what he's looking at. “Just, you have a lot of tattoos.” 

Mortimer doesn't actually have that many, he thinks, in comparison to some people. Most of his back is covered, and he has an unfinished half-sleeve on his left arm, with one bit of ink on his stomach. Can't even see them when he's wearing one of his shirts. Not like Kurt, brave enough to wear those brands on his face for all to see. Kurt doesn't try to hide, unlike the rest of those X-Freaks. Not like he could, but Mortimer likes that he doesn't try. He shouldn't have to. 

“I'm twenty-six, aren't I? Had plenty of time to get them.” He offers, not in the mood to talk to some easily-impressed kid about why he let people ink him up, why he wears all these colors and clockwork. He stretches his arms out, and feels his spine pop. “Look, kid, I haven't got time for you today. I've got chores.” 

“Because sitting on your ass is such hard work.” A voice growls. Mortimer just barely keeps the disgust off his face as he scents Sabretooth in the doorway. The man smells like he hasn't bathed since the last time Mortimer saw him, and more than that, he smells like he's been living off game again. The stench of blood and rot clings to him like a second skin. 

“And what is it you do around here?” Mortimer asks. “Oh, that's right, you get your arse kicked. Tell me, how many times has that X-Freak blasted you through a wall now?” 

“Keep talking, Toad.” He growls, approaching. Pyro is quick to scramble out of the way, and Mortimer's glad for it. Sabretooth hasn't noticed him yet, and frankly, Mortimer doesn't want him to. He's not eager to see the kid scared off just yet. 

“Eventually, you would think you would learn to dodge, but maybe that strategy is just too complicated, eh?” 

Sabretooth dives for him, but Mortimer is expecting him. He jumps, timing the leap so that his descent brings his foot down square in the center of Sabretooth's back, and when he springs back off him, it's with enough force to crack his spine in two. 

The man lies there, groaning, as his spine heals, popping back into place. 

Pyro is watching him, his hands shaking, and Mortimer sees the flash of silver in his hand. His lighter. 

“You weren't even trying.” Pyro says, sounding awed. 

“He heals. You know why that's a problem?” 

“No.” He says, with a shake of his head. 

“Means he's stupid. He doesn't care about skill, because he thinks he's immortal. He doesn't know how to fight proper, just swipes those claws of his and throws his weight around until he hits something vital, don't you?” 

Sabretooth is getting up, growling. 

“Lucky shot.” He swears, and Mortimer smiles. 

“Seems I have a lot of luck when it comes to you.” He taunts, getting him riled. 

“I'm gonna peel those tattoos right off you and make 'em into a coat, you little bastard.” 

“I'm shaking.” Mortimer sneers. 

“You will be.” He promises, and comes forward again. Again, Mortimer jumps, only this time he goes backwards, towards the wall. It's an easy thing, to turn in the air so that his hands and bare feet hit the wall, and he can stick, before he pushes off.

He flies over the eejit's head, and lands on his hands and feet. By the time Sabretooth turns, he's ready, and he uses his hands to lift himself up so he can put both his feet through Sabretooth's knees, cracking them off joint.

The man howls, falling, and Mortimer smashes his nose in, just to do it.

“Boys,” Mystique is there, looking amused. “Are we having fun?”

“He is,” Pyro says, pointing at Mortimer. 

“Are you?” She asks him, and he shrugs, smirking. 

“Not my fault he's too dim to learn.”

“I'm going to get you, Toad,” Sabretooth growls.

“And my little dog too?”

“Toad,” Mystique warns. 

“Yeah, I hear you.” He says, deciding to leave it. Their leader doesn't like it when he takes it too far with Sabretooth, and he thinks he's already edging on to some thin ice. “Let me guess, you need something too?”

“First, put a shirt on before our little Pyro suddenly develops some combustion abilities,” Mortimer frowns in confusion as he wipes his chest down, glancing over at the kid. He is a little pink around the ears, but that might just be from, well, alright, he doesn't have an alternate explanation for that. He puts a shirt on anyway, to save the kid some embarrassment.

“Sure you don't see something you like?” He asks her, teasing. 

“I'd sooner fuck Cyclops.” 

“Ouch, right through my heart,” he mutters around the cigarette he's put in his mouth, as he searches through his stuff for his lighter. 

“Here.” Suddenly, it's lit, compliments of the little fire butterfly that sits on the end, dissipating into smoke as he studies it. 

“Cheers.” He says, but the kid still won't meet his eyes. “Right then, what do you need?”

“The system.” She reminds him, as he works a kink out of his back, rolling his head while he inhales. “Still needs to be updated, and I think you want to see Pyro using his abilities.”

“Right.” He agrees. “Why is there always so much to fucking do? And why am I the only one who knows how to do it?” 

“Because you took a lovely month-long vacation, and your chores built up.” She says. It's a joke, a tease, but he grimaces, and maybe she realizes her joke isn't all that funny yet. Maybe in a few years, when the scars have faded. But not just yet. “Pyro, come with us.”

“Why?” Sabretooth asks, with a grin that shows too much fang. “Me and the kid could get to know each other.” 

“Because he's going to learn how to do something useful.” Mystique says, leaving no room for argument. Sabretooth will try it on with Mortimer, sure, but he knows better than to ever push Mystique. Pyro doesn't argue, just follows them with a furtive look over his shoulder at Sabretooth. “What do you know about computers?”

“I can use one?” He says, and Mystique smiles.

Mortimer just shrugs, inhales. “Good, that means I don't have to break you of any bad habits.”

He trails after them like a pup, as Mortimer makes the jump up to the higher level, Mystique and Pyro climbing the ladder behind him. Up here is where he keeps his more delicate pieces, things he doesn't want Sabretooth shedding on. There's a pile of blankets and a pillow under one of the tables, from where he's passed out more than once, and about a dozen dirty cups, some still half-full of tea or coffee. 

In the center though, is is his pride and joy, his masterpiece of ingenuity and resourcefulness, the hub of the system that keeps the base running. It's a beautiful thing, and he loves it deeply. 

“Pyro, allow me to introduce you to Toad's nest. Sometimes he hides here for days, and we'll have to bring him food.”

“Lying cow, you never bring me food.” He mutters offhandedly, sitting down on the floor to bring up what he wants done. “Right kid, c'mere.” Pyro sits beside him obediently, looking afraid to touch anything. “Okay, first thing, if you ever break anything in here, I will make your life hell, understood?” Pyro nods. “Good.” He ruffles the kid's hair. “Now, this here,” He brings up something on the screen. “Is the main command screen. I can control anything from this screen. Temperature, lights, water, but most importantly, security. And that's what you're going to be learning.”

He thinks Mystique just wants to get out of the frankly monotonous chore, but he sees a better motive. The kid needs something to feel useful, something to take some pride in. He's smart enough, Mortimer figures, and willing enough to follow directions that he can teach him how to be competent. Maybe if he feels like he can do something, he'll be less angry, and he'll stay out of Mortimer's way when he's trying to work.

“Do you do everything around here?” 

“Only seems like it now,” Mortimer says, while Mystique scoffs. “Alright, now see, this is what I need you to do,”

-

Kurt's eating lunch when Rogue makes her appearance, her pretty, if not shaky-seeming, smile a welcome sight after three hours of first level one German, then an algebra class he'd taken over for a migraine-plagued Scott. 

“Rogue,” he greets. “Have you come to see me?” 

“Hey Kurt,” she says, slipping into the solarium. Kurt likes it in here, especially with the soft afternoon rain splashing on the windows. It makes it seem cozy to him. “Can I eat with you?”

“Of course.” He says, wondering that she even thinks she has to ask. She relaxes though, and sits beside him on the bench, putting her lunch down on the little coffee table beside his. “But I wonder why you would sit with me, when you have a sweetheart you could be with?”

Her face changes, goes from a timid smile to thoughtful, and she looks at her hands.

“I have said something I should not have?” She shrugs. “Do want to talk about something, _liebling_?” It's an old-fashioned petname, one his mother used for him, and most wouldn't respond well to it. But Rogue likes when he uses any sort of affectionate name for her.

“Do you remember that guy that was with us at first, the one with the lighter?” Kurt frowns. He knows who she means, knows that someone left voluntarily, but he barely remembers the boy personally. He nods though, because it doesn't matter. Rogue needs to talk about him, and Kurt can listen. “John was Bobby's best friend. Ever since Bobby came here. They were like brothers. I wasn't close to him, not like Bobby, but it was hard.”

“Why?”

“John was kind of jealous.”

“Of Bobby?” He asks. Rogue is a pretty girl, he could see some competition. 

“Of me.” Kurt raises his eyebrows, and Rogue hurriedly shakes her head. “No, no, not like that, at least I don't think so. More like, he thought I was taking Bobby away from him. I care about Bobby, but John needed him. So I tried to respect their relationship. But Bobby and John were fighting, about a lot of things, and John kept taking it out on me. He blamed me for it, but I think he just did because he didn't want to admit Bobby didn't agree with him.”

Kurt frowns. “You did not like this boy, did you?” 

“He scared me.” She admits, in a whisper. “And now he's all Bobby wants to talk about. He's so angry at him.” He takes her gloved hand in his, and she lets him, squeezing his hand. 

“His brother has betrayed him.” Kurt says. “That kind of hurt, it runs deep. It will take him longer than a month to let go of it.”

“I know,” she says. “It's just, I think he blames me, a little bit.”

“Why would he blame you?” He wonders why she's coming to him with this, not that he minds. Isn't she close to the teachers here, to the other girls? He should be a stranger in comparison. Yet here she is, telling him a secret she's obviously kept close to her heart. “ _Liebling_ , you have done nothing wrong. John made his choices. If they are the wrong ones, then there is no one to blame but John.” 

“I could have tried harder.” She says, and he sees the tears in her eyes. Careful of her skin, he wraps his arms around her, making sure his bare skin only touches her hair and clothing. “I'm sorry,”

“It is okay.” He reassures her, as her shoulders shake. She's been keeping this in, he thinks, no one she trusts enough to confide in. She seems close to Logan, but he does not think Logan is the kind of man to give much sympathy to what he too would see as a betrayer. 

“He was funny.” She says. “When he was in a good mood, he was really funny. And he made me laugh, when I first got here. It was the first time I'd laughed in months. And now he's gone, and he's our enemy,”

“Rogue,” Kurt pushes her away so he can look her in the eye. “Listen to me, _schatz_ , you are too young to have enemies. Whatever goes on between this,” he struggles for the name, the nonsense name hard on his English, “Magneto, and the Professor, it does not make John your enemy.” 

“But he's working for Magneto now, Magneto tried to kill me,”

“Did John?” 

“No.” She sniffs, wiping at her eyes, her eyeliner coming off on her gloves. “No, never, he wouldn't,”

“Then do not blame him for another man's crimes.” He tells her, as she blinks back her tears, biting her lip. “He has perhaps made decisions you cannot understand. The world is full of people, making decisions you cannot understand. That does make them evil. Few things are, you know.” She is watching him, hanging on his every word. How badly has this poor child needed this, needed someone to explain the world to her? “And he is still the boy who made you laugh.” 

“But why would he go with him? He knows what Magneto tried to do to me.”

Kurt needs a moment to think about that. He knows little of this war that has apparently been brewing, so he has to think hard to find what the young man's reasoning might have been.

“You said, he was angry?” She nods. “And he was jealous of you?” She nods again. “What are John's parents like?”

“They're dead.” She says. “He didn't really have anyone.”

Kurt closes his eyes, as he thinks about what might be John's reasons.

“Maybe your friend was not as angry as you thought.” He says. “Maybe he was lonely.”

“How could he be lonely, he had all of us,” Roue protests, but he shakes his head and she stops. 

“You of all people should know, it is very easy to be alone, even when surrounded by other people.” She looks at her hands again, her expression still sad, but moving towards understanding. 

“John liked attention.” She says. Kurt privately thinks that he was probably starved for it, growing up an orphan in this house, with so many children to fight just to get some, and the boy he felt closest to leaving him behind. 

“Maybe this Magneto gave it to him.”

“That doesn't make it right.” She says, her voice firm, despite her tears. “Magneto doesn't care who he kills, as long as he gets his way.”

“If that is true, then your friend will eventually see it.” He's not sure how true that is, because he doesn't know anything about Magneto, not really. But Rogue doesn't need to hear that. She needs hope.

Eventually, her tears stop, as she sniffs. 

“I feel stupid, crying over John, when Miss Grey is gone.” She says. “I mean, John chose to leave us. Miss Grey was trying to save us.” 

“Did you know her well?” He asks, and she shakes her head.

“She taught all the smart sciences, mostly. Miss Munroe, the Professor, and Mr. Summers taught most of my classes.” She shrugs. “She was busy a lot of the time too. She was kind of the representative for the school.”

“ _Liebling_ ,” Kurt says, with a smile. “You did not know her. You knew John.” She nods, and manages a smile. 

“I'm sorry.” She says, shaking her head. “I didn't mean to just dump all that on you. You've probably been through worse than this.”

“Why do you think that?” 

“I don't know.” She says, looking a little startled. “It's just, I mean, I know my problems aren't really problems, and I just let them get to me,”

“It's alright.” He says, and she smiles again. “You can talk to me. I do not mind. But you must make a deal with me, yes?”

“Sure.” She agrees, looking puzzled. “What do you need?”

“My English.” He says. “Phrases, slang, I do not understand what some of the students say.”

“Oh, no problem.” She says, nodding eagerly. “Did you have some ones in mind?”

“Yes, what does 'night crawler' mean?”

“A night crawler is like, a bug, or a worm. 'Cause they come out at night, and they crawl.” Kurt groans in embarrassment, rubbing his hand over his face. “Why?”

“He was teasing me, and I did not even know.” He says aloud.

“Who?” 

He looks around furtively, but neither sees or hears anyone. 

“Will you keep a secret for me?” He asks, and she nods, looking mischievous. “I mean it, no one.” She mimes zipping her mouth shut and turning a key. “There is a man, his name is Mortimer.”

“You're _gay_?” She whispers, and he shushes her. She half-giggles and covers her own mouth. “Sorry, sorry, I just thought you had a crush on Miss Munroe.”

“Ororo?” He asks, puzzled, then grins. “Do you think I have a chance with her?” He doesn't mean it, and she knows it. “Ororo and I are friends. That is all. And I do like women. Just, not only women.”

“So, you like this guy?” She asks. 

“I do,” he confesses. “I like him very much. But when we met, he laughed at my stage name, and I did not know why. This explains it.” 

“I just didn't want to say anything.” She says, holding up her hands innocently. “So, is he a mutant?” Kurt nods. “Have you two been out a lot?”

“Only twice.” He says. She bites her lip as she looks around, making sure they're still alone.

“So, have you two....?” It takes him a moment to work out what she's implying.

“That is very inappropriate!” He hisses. “I am a teacher!”

“I don't take German, so you're not mine.” She counters, with a sneaky smile. “So have you?”

“No.” He says, feeling like he's doing something wrong by telling her this, even if she is not really a child, or his student. “No, we have not.” 

“So, is that just for modesty, or lack of opportunity?” She asks, as she brings her legs up so she can sit Indian-style on the bench. 

“There is something to be said for not rushing.” He says, copying her, though he keeps his knees to his chest. He wonders of he's hurting her feelings indirectly, by talking about something so simple, but so impossible for her. “ _Liebling_ , if this is not okay for you,”

“Nobody ever talks to me about this kind of thing.” She says quietly, brushing her hair behind her ear. “The other girls don't want to hurt my feelings, but that means they never talk to me about anything. Everyone goes quiet when I come in.”

“When did this happen?” He asks, nodding at her gloves. She actually laughs a little, shaking her head.

“During my first kiss.” She nods, biting her lip, like she just can't believe her luck. “I'm starting to finally get a little control though. I managed to kiss Bobby, once, without hurting him.” 

“Have you told the Professor?” He asks.

“No. It happened during, you know, everything. I've been working on it on my own, trying to keep my mind clear like it was then. Bobby hasn't exactly been thinking about it though.” 

“What kind of help do you need?” He asks, curious as to whether he can be useful. 

“Someone to touch.” She says, and then frowns. “No, Kurt, that's not necessary. I don't want to hurt you by accident.” 

“I trust you not to kill me, _schatz_.” He says, but she's not relenting. 

“Maybe after I've gotten better at keeping my mind clear, we could try. But right now, everyone's still really wound up. Thanks though.” He's made her happy just by offering, and that makes him feel like he's accomplished something, at least.

His mobile starts making noise again, and he fishes it out of his pocket. Mortimer's name is on it, but it's not a call. It's a text. 

_Not hung-over then?_

“Ooh, what's that?” Rogue asks, and snatches it out of his hand.

“You give that here!” He demands trying to get it as she leans out of reach, reading it out loud. 

“Oh, what's wrong Kurt, were you drinking?” 

“Rogue, give me that!” He manages to snatch it with his tail, and leans over it protectively while he painstakingly taps out a reply.

_Germans do not get hang-overs._

“Kurt, if you took any longer to type that, it would get there faster by telegram,” Rogue says. 

“Quiet, English is my third language, and this is my first phone.” 

“Third? What's your second?”

“French.” He says, and his phone makes the jingly noise again. 

_There's a theory that needs testing._

With Rogue's unsubtle spying, he smiles as he types a response.

_And how will you test it?_

_By taking you out again tonight._

“So, guess that answers the 'third date' question I was going to ask.” Rogues says aloud. 

“What?” He asks, confused.

“So, you do know, third date tends to be the...” She waves her hand, and Kurt understands what she's implying. 

“You are very nosy!” He reprimands, but she just makes a face at him. “And just because I might go see him again, for a third time, does not mean I am going to...” He trails off as he realizes how stupid he sounds. “What do I say?”

“Like I know?” 

_I have tests to grade tonight. Forgive me._ He taps it out and sends it, feeling guilty even as he does.

“I don't think lying is the right answer.” She says, eyebrow raised in disapproval. “Why are you blowing him off, I thought you said you liked him.”

“'Blowing him off'?” Kurt asks, while his phone sits silently in his lap. 

“What you just did. That's blowing someone off.” She frowns, like she's thinking. “Kurt, I'm just asking this because you're acting weird, but um,” she bites her bottom lip. “You've been with a guy before, right?” 

How she saw right through him, he must chalk up to the mysterious way women know everything.

“Oh god, Kurt, you can't be serious.” And again, she interprets the look correctly, her own eyes wide and disbelieving. 

“Rogue, not to be rude, but, you have seen how I look, yes?” She looks a little sheepish. “When I was younger, there was a girl who liked me very much, and I liked her very much. But she left the circus for university, and I did not hear from her anymore. And a few years ago, there was another acrobat, who I cared about deeply, but she wanted children.” He pauses, unsure of how Rogue will handle what he says next. “She did not want to take the risk.”

“Oh, Kurt,” she says, but he shakes his head. 

“I am past it, _liebling_. It was hurtful, but I understood.” He smiles. “Mortimer is the first man I am attracted to, who likes me too.”

“Does he know that?” Rogue asks.

“It's not easy to bring up, _liebling_. For now, I am seeing how it goes. If it becomes relevant, I will tell him.”

“Kurt, trust me, it's going to become relevant. Really fast.” 

His phone jingles.

_No trouble, love. Problems on my end now too. The eejit I have to work with blew up something, so I've got damage control._

“What does he do for a living that things blowing up just gets 'damage control'?” 

“He is an engineer.” Kurt says, as he taps out a reply.

_I am sorry for that._

_Trust me, he'll be sorrier when I kill him._

“That's kind of cute, that he calls you that.” Rogue says.

Kurt frowns at her, dismissing the trait easily with, “He is Scottish. They call everyone that.” 

She makes a very mock-impressed face.

“Ooh, British. You aim high, don't you?” 

“Quiet, you.” 

Together, they sit and eat lunch in the afternoon sunlight.

Kurt's phone sits silent on the table.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How can you love someone who has such a fundamental difference in beliefs from your own? How can you be a soldier in a war, and love a man who believes in peace? Or rather, how can a peaceful man love one who kills?

The sound Pyro makes is awful, a high keening noise of pain. 

“It hurts,” He gasps. 

“I know kid, I know, but you have to hold still,” Mortimer says, as Lykos works. Pyro holds onto Mortimer's hand tightly, tight enough it actually hurts, but he holds still, as still as possible on what little painkillers Lykos had in his kit. He'd sent Mystique for the good stuff from his office, but she was still about an hour out. 

“These burns are bad.” Lykos says, unhelpfully. “There's going to be scarring.” 

The kid sobs with pain as Lykos pours more antiseptic, or whatever, into the wounds on his arm. 

“Unless you have something useful to say, keep your gob shut, yeah?” Mortimer orders. 

“A little less attitude, Toad.” Lykos says, rather waspishly. “Especially considering I'm the one writing your prescriptions.” 

Mortimer shuts his mouth. 

“Pyro,” Lykos says. “What I'm about to do is going to hurt. But I need to do it. I'm telling you this because I need you to be prepared for it. If you move, I could hurt you.” Pyro is biting his lip so hard, Mortimer's nervous he might bloody it. “Nod if you understand me.” Pyro jerks his chin. “I'd suggest you look away.” He does, turning towards Mortimer. 

Mortimer holds his eyes for a minute, then puts his free hand over Pyro's eyes, just so he doesn't peek. 

He half-screams, half-gasps, as Lykos does whatever it is he needs to do. Mortimer can't look, scared he'll be sick if he does. The kid holds still, but Mortimer feels the hand covering his eyes grow damp. 

“Alright, I'm done.” Lykos says, in his soothing doctor-voice. “The worst is over, I promise. All I'm doing now is finishing the cleaning. Then I'll bandage you up, and by then, it won't be long before your medication is here.”

Mortimer pulls the sleeve of his shirt over his thumb, and wipes away Pyro's tears before anyone sees. Then he holds his hand while Lykos cleans out his burns, wishing the kid's endorphins would kick in, but the kid seems to suffer through every second of the pain. 

It finally ends though, and Lykos starts wrapping up the arm. 

“I should give you a once-over while I'm here.” Lykos says, to Mortimer. 

“It can wait til after he's done.” Mortimer says, as Pyro's fingers tighten in his. 

“So be it. I need to speak to Magneto, in any case. You do need to be looked over, though.” 

“Looking forward to it,” He says, and Lykos leaves. 

“It's never hurt me,” Pyro says, his voice shaking. “Why did it hurt me?”

“Too fast, I think.” He smooths the kid's hair back. “I don't think it's invulnerability, I think you control the fire. But this flared up too fast for you to get a handle on it. You did get it under control. Just not fast enough.” He looks over at the kid's arm. “Didn't look like third-degree to me.”

“Gonna scar?” Mortimer nods. “How bad?” 

“It's all up your hand, and your forearm. You're going to lose some mobility in that hand for a bit. And it's going to hurt like you wouldn't believe.”

“Don't sugarcoat it.” He says, but his attempt at a smirk is ruined when he cringes. Mortimer knows he's feeling a fresh wave of pain. He remembers that too clearly, the ebb and flow of it, living in fear of the next tide. “It hurts.”

“I know.” 

“Not anymore,” Mortimer looks over his shoulder, and sees Mystique, Lykos on her heels, digging through a brown paper bag. 

“Alright Pyro, you're going to take two of these,” He gives the boy two red and blue colored pills, and a bottle of water. The kid swallows with trouble, but gets them down. “Those are your antibiotics. They have to be taken every four hours, and I mean it. Burns are easily infected. This,” He shakes an orange bottle. “This is going to be your best friend. One every four hours.” He swallows that one too, more eagerly than the antibiotics, then settles back down. 

“Where's Sabretooth?” Mortimer asks. 

“Erik is talking to him now.” Mystique says, crossing her arms over her chest. “It looks like it's going to be a very long talk.” 

“He did it on purpose.” Mortimer says. “He's not nearly as dim as he acts, he knew what he was doing when he started poking at the prototype.” 

“I know that.”

“He gets worse every year. And Magneto just keeps him around, like he's tame, like he's not completely mental,” Mortimer says it all with no small amount of rage, because Christ, he could have killed the kid, killed a member of their damn Brotherhood, just because he could. 

“Viktor has his uses.” Mystique says.

Mortimer looks at Pyro, his breathing quiet now that his painkillers have lulled him almost to sleep, and rounds on her. 

“He's been alive so long, he's gone feral. You know it. You know there is something gone in him, and whatever you keep defending, it's not there anymore! Do you realize he could have killed us all? You and the boss included? If the kid had panicked, if I hadn't put a safety catch on the thing, Christ. We're so lucky we still have our skin, do you realize?” 

“What do you want me to do?” She snaps. 

“We are never going to get anywhere in this war if we keep losing recruits because they're scared of him!” 

“I don't like him any more than you do,” She says.

“Then do something! Magneto listens to you, more than anyone else. But this?” He indicates the now sleeping Pyro. “This can't happen again.”

“Toad, you're causing yourself stress.” Dr. Lykos cautions. “You're going to make yourself sick.” 

“Shove it,” He says, but sways as a wave of dizziness washes over him. “Christ,” He swears, and feels Mystique's strong arms giving him support.

“Help him sit,” He hears, and Mystique pushes him down into a chair. “Toad, are you experiencing any nausea?” He nods, and Mystique brings over a bag just in time as his stomach forcefully empties. He has his eyes closed, but he can sense her disgust as she waits for him to finish, then drops the bag down the incinerator. “Alright then, head down between your knees.” He obeys, the hot rush under his skin unbearable. 

His stomach finally stops rolling, and the heat fades as an ice pack is pressed to the back of his neck. 

“When was the last time you had one of these spells?”

“Not for a fortnight.” He says, and feels a hand in the middle of his back. Mystique's. Always hers. Cold as she is, it's always her comforting him when he's ill. 

“Have you been under unusual stress?” Mortimer sits up, falling back against the chair, and makes a face. “I said 'unusual',”

“No. Yes. Haven't been sleeping as much.”

“Are you taking the pills?” He shrugs. “Therein lies the problem. I'm willing to bet your dreadful habit has increased as well?” Mortimer makes a rude gesture at him, so Lykos turns to Mystique.

“He's been smoking more. I assumed it was stress.” She says.

“Traitor.” Mortimer mutters half-heartedly. She hands him a cup of water with a long-suffering expression. 

“Look, I don't care what Magneto, or the two of you think. We are not that genetically superior.” It has the sound of a lecture, but Mortimer is too tired to escape. “Now, I have spent my medical career treating our kind. If anyone knows what we need to recover, especially the two of you, who I have yet to see uninjured, it is me. Do you have any idea how bad your condition was when you were liberated?”

“Aye, you blathered on about it enough.” 

Lykos looks about a minute away from transforming, but he just pinches the bridge of his nose instead. 

“I'm not giving in to your posturing. You're getting looked over. Now.” He hauls Mortimer up by his elbow and helps him over to the other examination table. He jumps up so that he sits in a crouch, while Lykos pulls a curtain around the sleeping Pyro. 

“Toad,” Mystique says, “I'm going to go check the progress of Erik's conversation with Sabretooth.”

“I'm fine.” He tells her, because that's what she's really asking. She just raises her eyebrows and strides out. He hopes one of them takes the psycho's head off. 

“Which medications are you still taking?” Lykos sounds more short-tempered than concerned. He doesn't like being disregarded, and Mortimer can't seem to help himself. 

“The vitamins. The pain stuff, when I need it.”

“But not the sleeping pills.”

“They give me a headache.”

“You didn't think to call?”

“If I'm tired, I sleep like normal. If not, then, well,” He scratches his head. His mouth still has the acid taste of bile in it, and he wants to go clean his teeth. He wants to step outside for a smoke too, and he thinks he should text Kurt, but it's probably for all the wrong reasons. 

“Have you gone back to your apartment?”

“Been sleeping here.” 

“Maybe you'd be more comfortable there.”

“You a head doctor now?” Lykos makes a face. “Look, I've got work here. I haven't had time.” 

“Maybe you should make some. You might be more comfortable there. You associate this place with work and stress, might be why you're having trouble sleeping.” 

“Or maybe it's because I was tortured for a month.” He says. Lykos makes a face again. “Just speculating.” 

“You are my worst patient.” 

“I try.” 

“Shirt off, mouth shut,” Lykos orders.

Lykos makes him raise his arms, and various other annoying things as he satisfies his curiosity about Mortimer's progress, while Pyro sleeps like the dead beside them. He takes three samples of blood as well. When the doctor's done, he pulls a new orange bottle out of his bag and hands it to Mortimer. 

“Keep taking the supplements. I'm willing to bet your calcium and iron are still low. Your Vitamin A and K levels were still low last time, but that should have improved by now. This is zolpidem, also known as Ambien. Try this one for a few days, see if it helps. And it is my professional opinion that you need to go back to your own place again. Get some sleep. You'll be no good to anyone if you're half-dead.”

“I'll get right on that.” 

“I'm sure.” 

Lykos hands him his shirt, and he pulls it back on, pushing his hair back into order after. 

“The scarring isn't permanent.” He says, and Mortimer reflexively looks at his arm. “Well, not the ones from the electrodes. What you did to your arms is. It'll fade, of course, but never disappear completely.” 

“I'm real tore up about that.” He says. “Can I go?” 

“Yes,” Lykos agrees. “And stop smoking!” He orders.

“Yeah, get right on that,” He mutters, grabbing his pack and lighter out of his pockets.

Behind the curtains, he can see Pyro's form. The kid is still built like a teenager, not an adult, kind of thin and small still. And now he's scarred. 

He's got his cigarette lit before he steps out into the hallway, the first hit of nicotine not even making a dent on his frustration. He's so tired of all this. 

He heads outside, bare feet on the dirt, and takes out his mobile. 

_You sure you can't meet tonight?_ , he asks.

What is he doing?

 _I suppose I could_ , Kurt answers. 

He feels a rush of relief and joy that makes him worry even more about just what he thinks he's doing, but that doesn't stop him from replying.

_You want to meet me in the park? Around ten?_

_That is rather late._ Kurt's text says.

 _Make it worth your while. Promise._

For a minute, his phone is quiet, Kurt thinking, maybe, but then it vibrates, Kurt agreeing. 

Right then.

Back inside, he showers quickly, and gets himself in order. Then he makes another call, to the building he lived in, telling them he's picking up the keys to his flat. The desk clerk on the other end assures him the cleaners have kept the place habitable, and that his post has been brought in during his absence. 

“I'm off,” He says, to Mystique. 

“Off where?”

“Wherever I want to go.” He says. “I'm tired of you people.” 

“Toad,”

“Tell the boss I'll be back tomorrow.” He says, ignoring the note of warning. “I don't know when. Give me a ring if you need me.” 

She doesn't try to stop him again, likely knowing it's a lost cause. He takes what clothes he can find in his hub, his notebooks, his computer, and his flash drive with him, intending to maybe get some actual work done back at the place. Maybe. Or maybe he'll just take Kurt back to his flat.

He likes that plan.

When he gets to the place, he has a look around, checking to make sure everything is like it was left. 

It's almost like he never left, except for the general air of not being lived in, and the smell of cleaner. Not that he's the type to let his space look like a rubbish heap, but he's normally got his work spread everywhere. The place looks like a showroom, furniture and not a lot else. 

In his bedroom, he unpacks his clothes. The ones still sitting in the drawer smell like dryer sheets, as opposed to cigarettes, like what everything he had at the outpost smelled like. He tosses them in the laundry instead of putting them in with the clean clothes. 

He needs to buy soap, and other stupid, trivial things he hasn't thought about it.

He shaves and cleans his teeth. In the mirror, his hair is starting to go from acceptable to scruffy already. A barber, then.

He needs to finish his sleeve, he thinks, for around the hundredth time. He's tired of looking at it, like a coloring book half-finished, the stark black outline standing out against his skin like a brand.

Kurt's brands look good, he thinks. They sit in his skin like he was born with them. 

He's making himself miserable like this. He knows it. He needs to tell Magneto he can't do it, that it's asking more than he's got. It's just been a long time since anyone had his attention, since he was even thinking about it. His mum had made that face at him, last time he saw her, last Christmas, when he told her no, there was still no one he wanted her to meet. 

She'd had to change her views to accept so many things about her son, he knew, and he was sorry about that. The Church she'd been raised in told her that her son was the spawn of the devil, in more ways than one, what was she supposed to think? 

All she did was accept what she had to, though. That was the French way, after all. No matter what the situation, try to make the best of it, and fuck everyone else. 

His dad had always cared so much less. He was a Catholic in the same way many were, in that he went every Sunday, said his prayers, and took communion, but more out of habit than anything else. He'd never minded Mortimer's features, or what he got up to, or who with. 

He's one of the lucky ones, he supposes. Because it could have been so much worse. He still remembers the first dead body he ever saw. It was a tyke, a boy, barely five if he had been a day. Poor little thing had been like Mortimer, a physical mutant. Scales and gills. 

They'd strangled him. With a belt. His mum had tried to protect him, and when he saw the webbing between her fingers, he knew why they'd killed her too. 

He himself had been seventeen.

He wants to smoke just thinking about it, but he won't do it in the flat.

Why was Kurt under his skin? He'd hardly done anything to do it, just smiled, curled up to Mortimer, kissed him. He'd only had opinions that showed he thought about things, actually thought. And they'd been so different from Mortimer's own, seeing the same things Mortimer did, and trying to find the good regardless. Mortimer couldn't do that, didn't want to, but he liked seeing it exist, and out of someone like Kurt, not that hypocrite Xavier.

Kurt was sweet in a way he himself never was. It shouldn't appeal to him. 

What do they even have in common, he wonders. Kurt doesn't know anything about science, or mechanics. He obviously isn't going to be too fond of violence. 

Kurt's curious though. His eyes had lit up when Mortimer started talking about Jukebox's abilities. He'd probably be interested in the less useful things Mortimer studied, like astronomy. Seemed interested in the bike too. They spoke easily with one another.

And the way they'd kissed wasn't something to ignore. 

What is he doing? He feels like he's already in over his head. 

He heads into the sitting room, where he normally works. The floor is bare, one of the few times he's seen it as such. He'd cleaned everything out beforehand, burning it all. 

He opens his bag and lets his things lie on the floor, notebooks and pencils and graphing paper and rulers. He likes it better that way. This way it looks like his floor again.

His laptop he puts to the side, on its little stand. He doesn't use it much in the preliminary stages, so it doesn't need to be in the center. 

He sits down and leans back, looking up at the ceiling. 

He needs food, he supposes.

Christ, what he needs is a drink.

-

Kurt waits by a tree patiently, enjoying the sounds, the scent. The forest is alive in a completely different way from the school, full of quiet creatures getting on with their quiet lives. 

He smells him first, his cigarettes standing out like an ink blot among the smells of the forest. He can't hear him though. Mortimer is quiet then, knows how to move like a predator through the trees. If Kurt can smell him though, he must be close. 

“Boo,” He jumps, startled, as Mortimer suddenly appears in front of him. The scent of cigarettes is still behind him though, and his confusion must show. “Put it out about a meter back. Really, love, got to think outside the box.” 

“Coming from an engineer?” Kurt can't help it, and Mortimer scowls. 

“You saying something about engineers, love?” Mortimer is boxing him in against the tree, and his heart speeds up at the proximity. 

“What would I say about engineers?” Kurt asks innocently. 

“Hm,” Mortimer says, and runs his fingers through Kurt's hair. “Don't know.” The kiss that follows is nice, even if Kurt is anxious. They part for breath, and Mortimer's smiling. “What would you say about that part of my skill set?” 

“I don't know yet,” Kurt says. His hands have clenched in Mortimer's shirt of their own free will somehow. 

“You don't?” Mortimer's voice is low again, like gravel. “Maybe you need another demonstration?” He leans forward, and it's so much, almost too much, the heat inside building until it aches, and he lets Mortimer push him against the tree, so that their bodies are pressed together. It's when Mortimer moves away from his mouth, over to his ear, to that spot that makes him shiver against him, that he starts to feel overwhelmed, too much, too soon.

“ _Stoppen_ ,” He pleads, pushing against his shoulders. 

Mortimer does, but he's frowning.

“I do something wrong?” He asks. “Didn't seem like I was,” One of his hands slides around Kurt's waist, under his coat, fingering the edge of his shirt. Kurt can just feel his fingers skating over his skin. 

Kurt wraps his tail around the questing hand, pulling it away. He needs to come clean, now.

“You are the first,” He confesses, but that just seems to confuse Mortimer. “You are the first man I have ever,” He searches for the correct English, but can't find it. “I have only been with two women, in my whole life.” Mortimer understands now, and he withdraws. Not enough Kurt thinks he's upset, but more like he's giving Kurt some much needed breathing room. 

“Well, you fancy me, yeah?” Kurt nods. He sighs, and cups Kurt's face in his hands. “So, guess this'll be slow.”

“I'm sorry,” Kurt apologizes, because he doesn't know what else to say. 

“Nothing to worry about, love.” Mortimer says, and he leans forward to kiss Kurt again, softer this time. 

“Mortimer,” Kurt says, quietly, as their mouths separate. “You don't,” He's stuttering, like a complete idiot, unable to think of much beyond Mortimer's kiss, and how badly his body wants it. He almost wants Mortimer to just take what he wants, so Kurt can stop feeling so lost. “You don't have to, I can, I mean, I think I can,” Mortimer quiets him with another kiss, soft, chaste, enough to make him melt. 

“It's alright, love. Ah dinnae care.” He seems to mean it too, the way he looks at Kurt like he's done something funny. “Christ, Ah'm farr gone oan you,” He mutters. Now Kurt laughs, and Mortimer makes a face. “Wantae share?”

“Sometimes, I cannot understand you.” He confesses, and Mortimer laughs now too. 

“Sorry, sorry. Forget I'm supposed to talk like a proper gent around you.” He sounds clearer now, his words more pronounced, though the lyrical ups and downs are still there. 

“Why does your accent change?” Kurt asks. Mortimer steps back from him and sprawls out on the ground, pulling out his pack so he can get a cigarette. Kurt lies down beside him, the leaves crunching under his weight, and looks at his profile as he smokes, exhaling a cloud into the night air. 

“Well, I've lived outside Scotland for awhile now. I went to uni in England, when I was just seventeen. And I went to the Continent for a few trips.” He looks at Kurt out of the corner of his eye. “Speaking like this, got to be habit, didn't it?” He says. “So, you dinnae, didn't, go to school?” 

“No,” Kurt says. “Everyone in the circus was taught by other members. We could not bring in outsiders. They couldn't be trusted. So I read a great many books, but not so much in maths and science. Not like you.” 

“To be fair, love, I haven't read many books.” Mortimer says, staring up at the canopy as he exhales another smoke cloud. “My mum, she teaches poetry. Never loved it like she does.” 

“Are either of your parents mutants?” Kurt asks. Mortimer shakes his head. “My mother, she says my parents were both mutants. And that they are like me, different.” Mortimer eyes him again, looking thoughtful. “But she also says they gave me to her for a reason. That they are not very good people.” He had been twelve when his mother had sat him down and explained it, how he had been the greatest gift she had ever received. “But she always said that they were good enough to realize I would be better off with her.” 

“Ever tell you their names?” Kurt shakes his head, the leaves dry on his cheek. 

“She said it was for the best. I think she knew my father very well though, better than my mother. Sometimes, she would look at me, and say I reminded her of him. Never my mother though. So I don't think she knew her.” These are only his suspicions, and he can't quite explain how he's sure they're true. All he has the odd feeling he got as his mother said it, the way her eyes went soft and sad. “She loves me as good as any mother can.”

“Guess that's all you can ask for,” He says, and takes another drag. “I'm knackered. Might fall asleep right here.” 

“I used to sleep outside all the time, instead of in the caravan.” Kurt says, smiling at the memory. “I loved sleeping under the stars.” 

“Yeah? Me too.” Mortimer puts his cigarette out and turns to Kurt. “Love, you know, there is a war coming. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, but the way things are, they won't last long. We're living in limbo. So many governments, they want us dead. And one day, that registration act is going to come back. That's going to be the day it happens, the levee breaking. That's the day it's going to be war.” He looks so unbelievably sad, and Kurt has no idea what to do. 

In the end, he decides to move, the leaves rustling beneath him, until he and Mortimer are touching all along the length of their bodies. He rests his head against Mortimer's, and closes his eyes against the sadness. 

“Love, what side are you on?”

“I do not believe it will come to that. If it does though, and they come for us, I will not lie, and say I will go quietly. I will fight for my right to live. But I will not go in looking for a reason to start a war. So many would die, so many who only want live peacefully.”

“Love,”

“What are you really asking me?”

“I don't even know anymore.” Mortimer says. “I won't be rounded up, I won't be treated like a freak. I'll go down fighting, if I have to die.” 

“Violence is not the only answer. You have to know that. There is a chance we can live like we should, in peace with one another,”

“And if we can't? If they start coming in the night for us?”

Kurt sighs, and strokes Mortimer's face. 

“If that happens, I will do what I must. But I will not be a soldier in any war.” It's his truth, fundamental to his nature. He will not kill unless in self-defense or the defense of others. “But you would, wouldn't you?”

Mortimer holds his eyes, and Kurt finally sees the fragments of color in his iris, the speckles of dark brown against the black. Impossible to see unless they are sharing breath.

“Would you hate me if I was?” 

“I don't hate anyone, remember?” Kurt asks, smiling, but it doesn't seem to satisfy him. “No, I would not. I would not like it, but I could not condemn you for following what you believe is right. I have been called a coward before, because of my beliefs. But it is not that I am afraid, only that I cannot put my beliefs aside for others. And I would not ask you to do what I myself cannot.” 

“I like you,” Mortimer says, suddenly. “I shouldn't, but I do. I keep wanting to be around you, talk to you.” He closes the space between them for a kiss, gentle as a feather's touch. “Do that. I want to do that. But I don't understand you.” 

“How boring would it be if you did?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are people reading this. That alone makes me happy as can be.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a first time for everything.

Kurt's bordering on exhausted all through his morning classes, and he has no one to blame but himself. Mortimer had told him to go home sometime around two that morning, but Kurt had insisted on staying with him, too afraid of it ending. They'd ended up sleeping outside, Kurt's arm tucked under his head, body pressed to Mortimer's. 

The coffee they'd drank at the cafe, combined with the sweetness of the danish Mortimer had bought him, had made their kisses that morning an odd combination of bitter and sweet. 

And Mortimer hadn't even noticed Kurt picking the lighter out of his pocket.

He fully expected to be caught later, of course. But really, Mortimer's boast about how he'd never been pick-pocketed, nor ever would, had been nothing less than a challenge to Kurt's nimble tail.

“Kurt?” 

“Hello, _liebling_ ,” He says, looking up at Rogue. 

“So, I'm thinking you were out late?” She asks, coming in. He nods, and the blessed girl pulls a cup in a cardboard sleeve out from behind her back. “That's what I thought.”

“ _Danke_ ,” He says gratefully, taking it. “We did not sleep much.”

“Oh?” She asks, and he realizes what she thinks. 

“We were talking, and nothing else,” He tells her, and she pouts. 

“Trust you to find the one guy who isn't thinking with his dick,” She says, sounding half-resentful. “So, he really likes you, huh?”

“So he says,” Kurt says, taking a sip. “How are you today? Better than yesterday?”

“Yeah,” She nods. “I guess.” She fiddles with her hair, twirling it around her finger. “So, Miss Munroe asked me if I wanted to teach some of the younger students after I graduate.” 

“Really?” She nods in answer, and bites her bottom lip anxiously. 

“Just the little kids. The easy stuff, you know, chapter books and long division. She says we're getting more students every year, and we need more adults.” She crosses her arms, and leans on one of the tables. “She asked Jubilee and some others too. The ones who can't afford college. The ones who have nowhere else to go.”

“What will you do for higher degrees?” He might be wrong, but he thinks you need some kind of university to teach here. 

“Go to the community college, get an associates.” He's not sure what that means, what the equivalent is in his own country. “It's a two-year degree, not a four-year.” She must have seen his confusion. “I could get one in English, or early childhood education. I mean, it's not what I expected, a few years ago. But I've just got to make the best of it. We all do.” 

“What about Bobby?” He asks, and she frowns.

“Bobby got into college. He got a partial scholarship, and some loans to cover the rest.” She shrugs. “Kitty got into college too. But she wants to come back here when she's done, help take care of the school. We just all kind of owe it to the Professor.” 

“He is very kind, very generous.” Kurt agrees. “He is doing a great thing for our people, taking us in. Not many could, and fewer would.” 

“Are you staying?” She asks.

“I do not know. I will stay for as long as I am needed.” He honestly doesn't know where else he could go. He has no money, no passport, no identity. He's an illegal alien in this country, and could be deported if caught, but more likely, a worse fate awaits him. He doesn't trust this government, not after what happened to him at the hands of their military.

“Well,” Rogue says, “What if your man asks you to marry him, and whisks you away to his castle in Scotland?” There's a sarcastically whimsical air to the question, and he grins at her. 

“I was not aware men could marry other men.” He points out, poking at least one hole in that fantasy, but she just shrugs.

“Never know. The time they are a changin', you know? Mutants, gays, everyone will get their rights.” She sounds delightfully hopeful when she says it, and he smiles. He likes seeing her like this, not sad and defeated. So many of the students here have no hope at all of being accepted, of being able to live as they are, without fear. It's a troubling thing, to Kurt. 

“I do not know if we should hope for so much open-mindedness so quickly, Rogue,” He says, with a smile. “Let us try for mutant rights first, then we will move on to marriage equality.”

“I guess until then, you two can just live in sin.” 

“We're not doing anything sinful, _liebling_ ,” He protests. 

“Yet,” She adds, with a mischievous smirk.

“You are-,” He flicks her with his tail playfully, trying to think of the English word. “You are a _brat_ ,” He says, delighted to have found the right one.

“A brat?” She asks, mock-aghast. “A brat? I brought you coffee, you ungrateful ass!” She punches him in the shoulder. 

“Do not attack me!” He teleports up onto the desk, away from her, then behind her, then all around her, until he has her dizzy from turning. 

“Ooh, Kurt, you make me so mad!” She yells, laughing. “You're cheating!” 

“I am not, _liebling_ ,” He teases, teleporting behind her to tug her hair, then disappearing as she whirls around. 

“Kurt, when I get a'hold of you, I'm gonna make you into a – Mr. Summers!” 

Scott is standing in the doorway, watching, and Kurt teleports back down to the table beside her.

He's laughing into his hand.

It's the first time Kurt's ever seen him so much as smile. 

“I was just coming to check on how you were doing with the algebra class,” Scott says, nodding at Kurt. “I wanted to make sure you weren't overwhelmed. They can be a handful.”

“They were very good.” Kurt assures him, and it's mostly true.

“You two seem to be getting along.” He says, looking between them, still with that smile tugging on the corner of his mouth. 

“Kurt's an ungrateful ass.” Rogue says, and pulls on his tail.

“You are a brat!” He says again, and she sticks out her tongue. 

“I am never bringing you coffee again! Never! I don't care how late your boyfriend keeps you up, don't come crying to me for caffeine and comfort,”

“Rogue,” Kurt says quietly, and she stops, her hands coming over her mouth as she seems to realize what she said. 

“I'm so sorry,” She says, quietly, to Kurt. “It just slipped out.” 

“It's alright, _liebling_ ,” He says, even as he steels himself for whatever is about to happen next.

Scott is frowning, like he's confused. 

“Was it a secret?” He asks. Kurt doesn't know what to say, and slowly, Scott's eyebrows rise. “Kurt, you can't think I'd have a problem with it.” When Kurt and Rogue stay quiet, he steps into the classroom, now really frowning. “Kurt, I'm a mutant. An obvious mutant. I'm the last person to be an ass to you because you date men.” He actually seems hurt by Kurt's assumption, and Kurt feels guilt build in his stomach. 

“I was only trying to avoid causing discomfort with me among the students.” He says. “Already, some are afraid of me.” They don't show it, the older ones, but he sees the way their eyes widen, the way they whisper behind their hands. 

“Well, I guess I can see that.” He concedes. “But Kurt, don't ever feel like you have to hide something like that from me.” 

For a moment, Kurt thinks he might see what kind of man Scott was before Jean Grey's death. An amiable man who commanded some respect, who tried to include everyone. But the image fades quickly, as he looks over Kurt's shoulder, at the bookshelves. Kurt follows his eyes, and feels Rogue do the same.

There's an old picture there among the books, in a silver frame, and Scott walks past them, over to it. Kurt's noticed it before, and he knows what the man is looking at. The pretty young redhead, about fourteen, with a young Ororo, and two other girls Kurt doesn't recognize. 

“This was when Ororo first got here.” He says. “She barely spoke English. But she and Jean just, I don't know, they connected, right from the start. They were best friends from the first day. God, I'd forgotten about this.” He's sad, Kurt sees, but happy too, at the recovery of a forgotten memory.

“Who are the other two?” Rogue asks, coming up beside him as Scott picks the picture up.

“I'm sorry?” He says, then comprehends what she asked. “Oh, these two. This is Lorna,” He says, pointing to the girl with bright green hair. “Her codename was Polaris. Still is, actually. She works for SHIELD now. Her abilities are related to magnetism. She has a five-year-old daughter, named Theresa. She'll be joining us at the school in a few years. Got her mom's hair. And this is Alison,” He says, pointing at the blonde, “Her codename was Dazzler. She can convert the vibrations of sound into an energy blast. She's a singer now, in an opera company. Sends us free tickets anytime she's in the city.” 

“There have been a lot of students, hasn't there?” Rogue asks, taking the picture. 

“Yep,” Scott agrees. “My brother was a member of the very first X-Men team.”

“Really?” Rogue asks, looking up at him.

“Yeah. It was Alex, also known as Havok, that's my brother, Sean, also known as Banshee, and Beast.” He frowns. “Of course, that was when Mystique and Magneto were still here.” 

“What?” Rogue asks, eyes wide, and Kurt's curious himself. 

“Oh, you probably didn't know.” Scott says, looking between them. “You're both still pretty new. Magneto and the Professor were friends, before the school was established. When Magneto left, Mystique went with him. That was in the sixties though, a long time ago.”

“The sixties?” Rogue asks, frowning. “How old is Mystique?”

“Older than she looks,” Scott replies, with a laugh. “Man, I'd forgotten how long Jean's hair was then.” Kurt can see that it reaches her waist, a deep scarlet color that sets off her pale skin wonderfully. Her and Ororo beside each other are a beautiful contrast, he thinks, and their affection is clear. 

“She was beautiful,” Rogue says, smiling at Scott. 

“Yeah.” Scott says. “She was a great person. I know you didn't get a chance to know her that well, but she really was just amazing. She was so smart.” He takes the picture back from Rogue, his smile turning sad. 

“I'm sorry,” Rogue offers weakly, patting him on the arm. 

“As am I,” Kurt says. “I know how hard it is to lose a loved one.” And he can admit to a little guilt over this loss of Scott's, because he could not help, could not save the woman who had saved them. 

Scott claps Kurt on the shoulder. “I know you tried to get her, back there on the plane.” Kurt still remembers it, the way his body just suddenly couldn't move between the spaces, her gentle voice whispering _No_ in his mind. “It was her powers. Making the X-Jet stall, I mean. Ever since she used Cerebro, they'd been out of control. They were interfering with the power system. She had to get us away from her.” There's a resigned air to his sadness now, and Kurt thinks it might be a good thing, that maybe acceptance is finally coming for him.

“So that's why,” Rogue says. “You know, it was her who asked me to bring the jet. I didn't know her range even went that far.”

“What?” Scott asks. “What do you mean, she told you to?”

“Well, it wasn't words, exactly.” Rogue says, frowning. “And I'd been wondering if I should do something, get the jet closer to the dam.” She's twisting her fingers as she explains, pulling on the ends of her gloves. “I just felt her, in my head, telling me where the jet needed to be. Too bad she couldn't help me fly it.” Scott is staring at the picture again, and he's smiling to himself, a sad smile. 

“She knew you could do it.” Scott says. “You want to start learning how to fly it for real?”

Rogue's face lights up in unbridled excitement.

“I'd love to!” She says, and Scott smiles. 

“Alright then. I'll talk to Ororo, we'll get some training set up for you.”

Rogue bounces in happiness as Scott grins at her. 

“Oh, and there was something else,” He says. “We're getting a new teacher. Well, sort of new. Beast, Dr. Hank McCoy, is coming back, to help.”

“That will be good.” Kurt says. “We're a little outnumbered here.”

“Hey,” Rogue smacks him in the shoulder.

“Stop hitting me!” He orders, and she sticks her tongue out at him. He does it back, and hears Scott groan. 

“More like I'm a little outnumbered.” He hears Scott mutter. 

“You're not supposed to stick your tongue out at me, you're a teacher!”

“I am not your teacher!” 

“God help me,” Scott says, but he's laughing. 

“Mr. Wagner?” His algebra students are starting to linger outside the door, so Rogue and Scott make a quick exit, Rogue definitely faster than Scott. She'd earlier confessed to Kurt that algebra had not been her strongest subject.

“Everyone, take your seats,” He directs, and begins the class, picking up on where they had left off with the quadratic formula. This was as far as he himself had gotten in mathematics before his education had mostly ended, but he'd been good at it. The more he teaches it now, the more he remembers.

He wonders if Mortimer would be willing to teach him more, if he asked nicely. He could think of some very nice ways to ask. 

He finishes the teaching day easily enough, and ends up having dinner with Rogue. If he eats in the kitchen or the dining room, he runs the risk of being stared at by the other students, so meals and time with her are quickly becoming a habit now. She's the only one who doesn't seem to mind any of his quirks, physical or German.

“So,” She asks, twirling noodles around her fork. “What kind of books do you think kids will like?”

“I grew up in Germany,” He reminds her. “Different books. And we were taught to read from the Bible in the circus.”

“Ah.” She says, taking a bite.. “Yeah, I don't think that would go over well.” Kurt shrugs, not much caring one way or the other. “So, I don't get it. How are you Catholic? I was raised Baptist, and even I know they said mutants _and_ gays are going straight to Hell.” She emphasizes with a cutting motion with her hand. “Do not pass Go, do not collect two-hundred dollars.” Kurt doesn't get that, so he just lets it go.

Instead, he smiles at her, and pulls his ever-present rosary out of his pocket. He hands it to her, because he knows she's been curious, and lets her look at the well-worn beads, the crucifix that hangs from it. 

“My mother gave that to me when I was a boy. My father left it for me.”

“Was it his?” 

“I think so.” He doesn't know how true it is, but it gives him comfort sometimes, to think that even though his father could not be a true parent to him, he had cared enough to leave something meaningful for Kurt. 

“What are these?” She asks, studying the bottom of the crucifix. “These initials?” He knows what she means. The letters read _AKJQ_ , and are so worn into the silver that they're barely legible now. 

“Probably the mark of the silversmith who made it.” He answers. “That rosary is my most precious physical possession.”

“I understand that.” She says, “But that doesn't explain why you still follow it.”

“You don't follow the rosary, Rogue.” He chuckles. “The rosary is for prayer, to thank and give praise to God. God, not the archbishops, or even the Pope. No matter what they say, what prejudices they let cloud their judgment, I know, in my heart and soul, that God loves me. I follow His laws, not theirs.” 

“It must be nice,” She says. “To have faith that strong.”

“You said you were raised Baptist.” Kurt won't pretend to know anything about that particular sect. He barely understands Protestantism, he can't be expected to understand its own divisions within. “But you have no faith?”

She shrugs and takes a drink. 

“I don't know. My parents weren't really religious. They went to church because you're supposed to go to church in Mississippi. I never really felt what you're supposed to feel. But I went anyway.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“I don't know.” She says, and he appreciates that she doesn't lie one way or the other. Some people do, when speaking to him, perhaps afraid he will judge them for their atheism. Some are also reluctant to admit their atheism to themselves as well, he thinks. 

He thinks Mortimer might be an atheist. There's something in the way he looks at the rosary, in the way he listens to Kurt talk about religion. But if he doesn't mind, Kurt doesn't.

Kurt doesn't mind a lot of things about Mortimer. Not even that he smokes.

Again, he fingers the lighter in his pocket. So far, he hasn't had a text from him yet.

“Hey, you zoning out on me?” Rogue is waving her hand in front of his face. 

“I am sorry, _liebling_ , I was thinking of something.”

“Ooh,” She makes an interested face. “So, how tall is this 'something'? What does he look like?” Kurt grins at her, showing fang, and she leans forward eagerly. “Come on, you have to give me something. Anything.”

“He is only as tall as me.” Kurt says. “And he smokes.” Rogue wrinkles her nose.

“Ew, smoking. Doesn't the smell bother you?” He shrugs.

“Many people in the circus smoked. I think it is a bad habit, but it doesn't really bother me.” He says, but she just makes a face. 

“Still gross.”

“Watch, you will fall in love with a smoker too.” He teases.

“Not likely.” She says, scowling. “I hate the smell. And it's like kissing an ashtray, apparently.” She eyes him curiously. “Is it like kissing an ashtray?”

“I have not kissed any ashtrays.” Kurt says. “But it just tastes like ash to me. And it doesn't bother me.” 

“Hey,” She says, with a touch of realization. “You said 'too'.”

“I said 'too'?” He asks, confused.

“You said 'you will fall in love with a smoker too'.” Kurt's tail is winding nervously as she grins. “Kurt, you've been on three dates with him, and you still haven't slept with him. Are you really in love with him?”

Kurt has no idea. He knows he wants him, wants to keep speaking with him, wants to replicate that feeling from when he was laying beside Mortimer on the leaves over and over again, that feeling that this was all there was, all he would ever want. 

“I think I could be,” He says, because that feels like the truth. “It's hard to explain. He's very hard to understand. Sometimes I cannot tell if he is joking or not. My English is still kind of so-so at times, and though he tries, sometimes I cannot understand his tone through his accent.” He smiles to himself, tail curling happily. “He called me 'brilliant' though. And I do not think that was a joke.”

“'Brilliant'. How very British,” She says, with a smile. “I hadn't thought about the accent thing. Does mine mess you up too?”

“A little. You say some words very strangely, and the way you finish the ends of your sentences, sometimes I do not know if it is a question or not?” He's certainly getting better though, the more time he spends around the diversity of the school. “I think I will be a very good English speaker, by the time I return home.”

“So you _are_ going back to Germany?” Rogue asks, frowning. 

“Not for awhile, _liebling_ ,” He reassures her, putting a hand on her shoulder. She's getting attached to him, he thinks, and he's getting attached to her. 

“I'm glad.” She says. “You're the only person who actually talks to me, you know. I mean like, talks talks.” It takes him just a minute to work out what she means, and he chuckles, his tail winding around behind him. “But that's changing. Jubilee, Kitty and me are talking more, now that we all know we're staying. Kitty will be coming back here on her breaks, of course. She's figured out she can take classes at the community college on her breaks, and graduate early.”

“Isn't that a lot of work?” 

“She says she wants to hurry up and get to work here. She's got all these ideas now. Man, I didn't know it, but she can really talk once she gets going. Jubilee and me will just be like, nodding, and she's going a mile a minute.” Kurt laughs with her, because it sounds like one of the clowns from the circus, Therese, who would talk a person's ear off if they let her. 

He feels a pang, thinking of the circus, and his family. He misses everyone dearly. 

“Do you think I'll be a good teacher?” Rogue asks, frowning.

“I think you will be great at whatever you want to be,” He says, and she smirks.

“Well, what if I wanted to be a porn star?” He blinks in surprise, and she laughs at him.

“Still a little impossible, I would think,” He says, trying to remain logical despite the burning in his face, as she keeps laughing at him. “You are a very naughty girl,” She's just teasing him, he knows, but thinking of her like that makes him want to clean his brain.

“Oh, like you're not?” She taunts.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You laughed as hard as everyone else when you saw the drawings Jeffrey did all over Miss Munroe's chalkboard,” She points out, naming a young mutant with a certain artistic talent he had used to a bad end last week. 

“They were very good!” He says, chuckling at the memory. 

“They were _bad_ ,” She says, grinning. “He's still cleaning windows for it.”

“He should feel lucky that cleaning duty was all he got,” Kurt says, and she nods in agreement. 

“True.” She sighs. “John used to play some really good pranks. Like, can't be topped, ever, pranks. Miss Munroe would get so mad at him.” Her expression turns sad as she brushes her hair behind her ear. “She always forgave him though. He was her favorite, you know.”

“I'm sure she does not have favorites,” Kurt disputes, but Rogue shakes her head.

“No, she like, raised him. That's what Jubilee told me. She said John's been here since he was a kid, and Miss Munroe took care of him. But I knew he was her favorite before she told me. Just, the way they acted around each other. You can't get that mad at someone unless you really love them, you know?” She licks her lips in a nervous gesture, and he wonders if she's going to cry again. “He picked flowers for her, for Mother's Day. I saw him out in the woods, getting all these wildflowers, and then I saw them on her desk. With a big ribbon around them. The bow was like, the worst bow I've ever seen.” She smiles. “But it was him.” 

“She has seemed fine,” He protests, unable to reconcile the soft, smiling Ororo with a woman who should be mourning two losses.

“Do you really think she'd cry in front of people?” She asks, and he's forced to agree with that assessment, at least. “You know, she wouldn't even talk to Bobby about him today. She told him he had to talk to the Professor, that she was busy. She's never done that before.” 

“When did this happen?” He asks, thinking about when he had last spoken to Ororo, how her mood had been. She had seemed distant, he remembers, but he had assumed she was only preoccupied with her work. Perhaps he had missed something?

“Bobby told me about it right before I came to meet you.” She sighs, and he remembers their conversation the day before, her boyfriend's anger and obsession. “This just won't end. I feel like we all have a good day, and we don't think about what happened, and then suddenly I'm reminded that they're both gone. I hate it.” 

“It's the nature of mourning.” He says, trying to comfort her. “Eventually, you have fewer days where you think of them, and when you do, it is only the good things.” This has at least been true in his experience, and he hopes it proves that way in hers. He would offer more spiritual advice, but he thinks it would not give her the comfort it would give him.

“Maybe he'll come back.” She says, but she doesn't sound like she believes it.

“Maybe.” He agrees.

His phone jingles.

 _You have something._ The text reads.

He smiles at it, and as Rogue leans over his phone, she raises an eyebrow in curiosity. He pulls the silver lighter out and shows her.

“Oh god, Kurt, you took a smoker's lighter? He's going to kill you!”

 _You have no proof I took anything._ Typing with just one finger, when the phone is designed for someone with four at half the size, is getting easier, but he's still slow enough to make Rogue sigh.

 _The fact that you know something was taken is proof enough. You're in trouble._

“Really, Kurt, he's going to kill you.” Rogue says. “John had heart palpitations if anyone so much as touched his.” 

_You're giving it back._ The next text says. _Bring it round my flat tonight. At 8._

Kurt checks his watch, and sees it's only just six. Another text comes in with an address, and Rogue is practically biting her tongue with glee. 

“You're going to his house,” She sing-songs. “You're getting-” He wraps his hand in her scarf and covers her mouth before she can finish, but feels the wet slide of her tongue through the fabric. 

“That is disgusting,” He says, and she sticks her tongue out, scraping it between her teeth.

“Eww, scarf-taste,” She says.

“Serves you right.” He says, and she makes a face at him. 

He takes his time finishing dinner with her, just to make sure she doesn't dip back into her melancholy, but they're joined by Jubilee and Kitty after another half an hour. The three girls are quick to start chattering, so he's able to excuse himself upstairs without worry.

In the shower, he lets his mind wander to Mortimer, to his hands, his kiss, and what they'll do in his flat. Mortimer promised slow, and Kurt trusts that he means it, has no intentions of forcing Kurt into anything, but Kurt doesn't know that he wants slow, exactly. Doesn't know that he doesn't want Mortimer to do exactly what he was clearly thinking of last night. 

He's not naïve. The circus hadn't been private, for one, and he'd seen more than he should have at times. Not only that, he'd been, well, researching, since the second date, when he'd touched himself while imagining Mortimer. He has an idea of what Mortimer wants, thinks some of it might even be easy, not terribly different from being with a woman, from self-pleasure.

Mortimer's skin is cool, would probably be cool against his, when his hand wraps around Kurt, strokes him, makes him pant.

Even in the privacy of the shower, those thoughts make him burn with embarrassment. 

He gets out and gets himself dry, then dresses. 

For a moment, he wonders how good of an idea this is. He barely slept the night before. But he doesn't have to teach until the afternoon. He could get in a decent nap beforehand. Of course, maybe he's getting ahead of himself. Maybe he has no reason to worry about not sleeping tonight. 

He thinks about Mortimer's hands, skating over the bare skin of his waist, and he shivers. If he offers, he knows Mortimer will take. 

He pulls himself out of his fantasies, and reminds himself he is not a silly teenager, or a virgin. Neither is Mortimer. 

If he stands here thinking much longer, he realizes, he's going to be late.

He teleports out into the trees, following the GPS on his phone to the western part of town, where there's a section of apartment buildings and townhouses. Mortimer lives in one that's further from the street, with a carport. Kurt sees the black motorcycle parked in a spot, as he teleports on top of the metal structure, then to the entrance, checking for witnesses as he does.

He pulls his hood up before he walks in, keeping his tail under his coat, and hopes no one looks too closely at his bare feet. He's not in the mood for any of the problems his face sometimes causes. He wants to be safe among other mutants, and that frightens him, a little, that he's even thinking that way at all. 

In any case, he takes the stairs to avoid any inescapable confrontations, and teleports up to each landing until he reaches the fifth floor. 

His luck keeps, as he creeps down the empty hallway, heart pounding with nerves, to the door with the correct number. He knocks, looking right and left furtively as he waits, every second dragging. 

Mortimer opens the door on the fifth knock, and Kurt teleports inside, behind him, breathing easier now that he's safely inside. 

Mortimer, for his part, only makes that same, vaguely amused expression he seems to always have on his face. He shuts the door and slides the bolts, and only then does Kurt notice he doesn't have a shirt on.

His back is covered in colorful tattoos, an odd mix of exaggerated machinery and flowers, one large enough to cover his shoulder blade. Its petals are welded metal, with rust on the edge of one, and a clockwork blue frog with a wind-up key in its back sitting on one of the others. 

“You have a lot of tattoos,” He says, and Mortimer turns, raising an eyebrow.

“Everyone says that,” He replies, as Kurt's cheeks burn, his eyes flicking over his bare chest. He knows Mortimer is strong, knows he has muscle, but there's a difference between knowing and seeing, at least for him. 

There's another tattoo on his chest, that loops under his pectoral, a tribal-style branch done in stark black. 

He's so busy focusing on the curl of ink, it's a surprise when Mortimer suddenly pins him to the wall, his hands on Kurt, stroking down, until they're over the front of his trousers, his eyes on Kurt's while he smirks.

Kurt has no idea what he's doing, or if he wants him to stop, but then Mortimer's hand dips into his pocket, and wraps around the stolen lighter. 

He waves it in front of Kurt, making a tsking noise. 

“Stealing is a sin,”

“I was borrowing, not stealing,” Kurt protests, grinning.

“Oh?” Mortimer asks. He hasn't moved away from Kurt, his entire body still pressing Kurt against the wall. “You taking up smoking, love?” He sticks the lighter in his own pocket and braces his forearms against the wall. 

“Too expensive,” Kurt says, with a shake of his head, as he wraps his arms around Mortimer's neck. “You said no one could pickpocket you. I was only proving a point.” 

Mortimer is nodding very seriously at this. 

“Yeah, I see your point. Because a lot of pickpockets will be distracting me by sticking their tongues down my throat.” Kurt smirks, and kisses him again, opening his mouth to him. Mortimer's cleaned his teeth, tasting like mint instead of cigarettes, for once. Not that Kurt minds either way, not when Mortimer kisses him like this, leaves him gasping as they part. 

Mortimer looks a little short of breath too though, and Kurt knows what he's feeling, knows Mortimer is getting aroused from this. So is he, if he's honest.

“And for someone with some pretty interesting skills of his own,” Mortimer says, pupils dilated, “I certainly get you pinned enough. Might want to look at that.” 

“Will every attacker be distracting me by walking around without a shirt?” Kurt teases, but it's not completely inaccurate. Mortimer is distracting, from the gentle lines of the muscles in his abdomen, to the cut of his biceps. “And maybe I let you pin me.”

“Oh?” Mortimer asks, with a raised eyebrow. “And why would you do that?”

“I don't know. Why would I?” It's a challenge, one he hopes Mortimer will take.

Without warning, he ducks down, and presses his mouth to Kurt's neck, up his jaw, to his ear. Being the same height means that they're completely pressed together, means Kurt can feel just how interested Mortimer is getting now, knows Mortimer feels him too, from the way he moves against Kurt, his thigh nudging Kurt's, parting them so that the warmth is against Kurt. He tips his head back, against the wall, clutching at Mortimer's bare shoulders, wanting, wanting so badly it aches.

“Mortimer,” It just slips out, like a sigh, and Mortimer stalls against him. 

“Stopping, stopping, promise,” He says, but Kurt holds on to him. 

“ _I wasn't saying stop,_ ” Kurt says, in German. He's not sure he can speak proper English right now. 

“Here's the thing, love, my control isn't iron-clad.” Mortimer says, sounding reluctant to even admit that weakness.

“Mortimer,” He says again, and pulls him in for another kiss. Mortimer is less than responsive, holding back, and that's not what Kurt wants right now. It's been so long since anyone's wanted him, since he's wanted anyone. He's reluctant for want of experience, not any sense of propriety, and right now, with Mortimer pressed to him like this, his body doesn't care anymore. He needs this. 

So he parts his legs further and pulls Mortimer in, so they're pressed back together, and he feels Mortimer change from reluctant to aggressive in the space of a heartbeat. He shoves Kurt hard against the wall, the kisses greedy and deep now. 

“Kurt,” He likes the way Mortimer says his name now, likes it so much he nips Mortimer's jaw in a half-kiss, making him groan. “Christ, I have a bed, love, a nice one, and you would look so good in it,” He sounds like he means it, and much as Kurt likes being pressed against the wall, if they're in a bed, he'll be able to see Mortimer, see his tattoos and his chest and the rest of him. 

“ _Ja_ ,” He agrees, and Mortimer nods. 

“ _Ja_ ,” He repeats, in his accented German, a little bit of a smirk as he mocks Kurt. 

Kurt frowns at him and teleports behind him, by the open door that he can see leads to the bedroom. 

“Mocking me will get you nothing,” He warns, and Mortimer holds up his hands in mock-surrender. He wraps his tail around Mortimer's arm, and squeezes, a little amazed that he can do this, that someone looks at him and doesn't see something to get past. Mortimer likes how he looks. No one has ever liked how Kurt looks.

He likes how Mortimer looks too, he thinks, studying him, the muscle in his chest and arms reminding him of how easily Mortimer cut through the trees beside Kurt. He wants to touch, feel how they knit together over the bones. 

He shrugs his jacket off and lets it fall off to the side, then shucks his shirt as well. 

“Well, look at you, love,” Mortimer says, quietly, “Aren't you brilliant?” It's a question, but not really, just Mortimer telling Kurt something no one's ever told him before, no one but him. 

Tentatively, he reaches out and touches Mortimer's breastbone, the muscle beneath hard under his fingers, as he trails down over his pectoral, to follow the tattoo. The ink is still raised, not yet a part of Mortimer's skin. 

“You like it?” He asks, his black eyes on Kurt. “I like yours.” His hands are on Kurt's bare chest suddenly, following the lines. Kurt's heart thuds a tattoo of its own against his ribcage, and before he knows it, Mortimer's hand is over it. “You alright?” 

“Yes,” He answers, and he means it. 

-  
Some time later, when the moon is high in the sky, Mortimer steps outside for a smoke, leaving the sliding door open behind him, so he can hear if Kurt wakes up. 

He feels good, happy, and not just because of the much-anticipated sex. Though that was nice. Kurt had been so dark against his white sheets, a slice of shadow that was just for Mortimer. He'd wanted to keep him there forever, impractical as that seemed. 

In any case, he's happy. He's really happy. He has Kurt, and the strings are cut, finally. 

The boss knew more than Mortimer would like him to, right now, because Mortimer had a shit poker face when it came to Magneto, always had. The treating him like a naughty schoolboy had been undeserved though, he felt, taking a drag in thought. 

Still, nothing had been more relieving than getting called in to see his disappointed face, as Mortimer reported back the relevant information about Kurt's personality.

“Well, he's certainly not his father.” Magneto had said, pinching the bridge of his nose, and Mortimer was inclined to think that was an understatement. He'd once seen Azazel jam his tail into someone's bullet wound just to watch the human squirm. 

“You could say that.” Mortimer had agreed, out loud. “And he just doesn't have Azazel's range or skill. He's an acrobat, for Christ's sake.” 

He'd overstepped, he realized, about a moment later, as Magneto had raised an eyebrow. 

“There's no need to keep meeting with him then.” Magneto had been teasing him, and he'd gritted his teeth, unhappy about being seen through.

“Would it hurt, if I did?” Magneto turned to him, frowning, but Mortimer could still see the spark of humor there, and it embarrassed him. 

“And why do you want to continue seeing Mr. Wagner?” He was going to make him say it, and Mortimer knew it. Christ, he'd felt like he was fifteen again, hauled up before the headmaster.

“I didn't say I did.” He'd protested, weakly. “It would be odd, wouldn't it, if I just up and disappeared on him. No reason to stop. Might need him one day.” He'd been lying through his teeth, trying to justify himself, but he'd known it was a lost cause. Magneto knew what he was on about.

“Toad?” That had been his cue to start telling the truth, the whole truth.

“It wasn't on purpose. Just sort of happened.” Admitting it had been like pulling teeth, but Magneto had just laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “It won't interfere.” He wouldn't let it. He was still who he was, still a member of the Brotherhood. But maybe, just for this, he'd like to be someone else too. 

“I know. You've always been loyal, Toad. I don't doubt you.” His trust had been reassuring, mostly. 

Mortimer showing so much of his hand to the boss bothers him though. He likes keeping everything as close to the chest as possible when it comes to his personal thoughts. Magneto knowing so much, that could be a problem later, but fuck. Just fuck.

How thick is he, that he doesn't even care? Because he doesn't care. He just wants Kurt, and now he has him. He has a man in his bed who smiles at him, who turns into him, who he can bloody talk to.

Much as it kills him to admit it, Mystique was right. He needs this, this contentment he feels with Kurt. This is, Christ, this is fantastic. He just wants to feel like this for the rest of his life. 

He takes a deep inhale and smiles up at the sky, feeling all is well in his world, for once. 

He hears movement, and makes out Kurt's shape, moving towards the door. He blends into the darkness easily, his skin looking like midnight. His eyes are bright though, as he focuses on Mortimer, ducking out onto the balcony with him. 

Mortimer holds out an arm in invitation, and Kurt slides into the spot, resting his head on Mortimer's shoulder. He breathes slowly, still half-asleep, and Mortimer kisses the top of his head fondly, smiling still while he smokes. 

“'s cold,” He mutters, into Mortimer's neck. 

“Should have nicked more than one shirt.” Mortimer says, fingering the collar of the shirt Kurt's wearing. It's one of his own, and he won't deny he likes seeing Kurt in it, wearing his clothes, like he's already fit himself into Mortimer's life. 

“Mine was very far away,” Kurt explains, still mumbling. He really doesn't wake up well, but Mortimer doesn't mind, not with the way he wraps his arms around Mortimer's waist and clings to him, using him for support. “Why are you out here?”

“Miss me?”

“Hm.” Kurt is trying to crawl under his skin, feels like, but Mortimer doesn't mind. “Come back to bed.” 

“Let me finish this,” He says, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette.

“You smoke too much,” Kurt reprimands, and Mortimer feels his lips against his neck, a sweet kiss that makes him smile so hard it hurts. 

“I should probably quit.” He concedes, because he should. 

“'Should' is not 'will', is it?”

“Not even close.” Mortimer says, and Kurt laughs dryly, pulling away from the crook of Mortimer's neck, so he's eye to eye with him. Mortimer lets his cigarette smolder between his fingers as he smiles at Kurt. “Don't you have to work in the morning?” He just wants to know when Kurt needs to leave, but the way Kurt's face suddenly closes to him makes his stomach clench, and the way he starts to pull back, pull away from Mortimer, well, that's not what he wants at all. 

“I could go now.” It's not a statement, more of a question, and Mortimer frowns, taking a hit off his cigarette while he works out what's going on in Kurt's head.

“Love, I didn't mean anything by it. Just don't want to be responsible for you getting in trouble,” He grabs Kurt, pulling him back by the waist. “Not exactly a good impression for you to be making, is it?”

Kurt just looks embarrassed now, so Mortimer kisses him, cupping Kurt's neck with his free hand while he does it. 

“You're a little ridiculous,” He chides, gently, as Kurt purses his lips. 

“I do not know what the rules are,” He says, shaking his head. “With women, you stay. But I do not know what to do, like this.” 

Oh Christ, Mortimer thinks, as he slings his arm around Kurt's shoulders, pulling him in so he can kiss his temple, while a laugh bubbles up out of him, oh Christ. He's in so much trouble. He really is. Nothing to be done, not now. Kurt's got him. 

“You laugh at me too much,” Kurt grumbles, from somewhere near his collarbone, as he curls back into Mortimer.

“Bet I can make up for it.” He says, and Kurt hums in a considering way. Mortimer takes one last drag of his cigarette, down to the filter already, and then smashes it out in the ashtray. “Come on love, back to bed.” 

Navigation down the hallway proves harder than expected, when Kurt decides it's a good time to push him up against the wall and kiss him, his tail winding around Mortimer's thigh. Despite the stale taste of ash in his mouth, the kiss goes on and on, to the point Mortimer is considering the wall as a serious option. And with their mutations, he realizes, the wall is more than doable. 

There's a lot of things that are doable.

“Come,” Kurt says, tugging on his hand, pulling him forward, towards the bedroom.

“Exactly what I was thinking, love,” Mortimer agrees, and Kurt grins, showing fangs. 

He could love that smile, he thinks. 

He just might already.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Hey look, there's a plot. At last.

“You smell like sex.”

Mortimer frowns, and wishes for a cigarette. 

“You fucking faggot,” Sabretooth growls, leaning closer, taking another sniff. 

“Well-spotted.” He says, instead of rising to the bait. “Only took you ten years. That's quite quick for you.” 

“One of these days, Toad,” Mortimer doesn't like to admit it, but if Sabretooth really got it into his head, he could kill him. He only has so many tricks up his sleeve, and he's not entirely sure he could get the Pussy-cat's head off before he got Mortimer's. 

“I've heard this one.” He says, and stands, trying to find his notebook. 

Sabretooth rumbles something obscene that Mortimer disregards, but he can't disregard the claws around his neck, as the man leans over. He smells even worse up close, the general odor of animal and unwashed skin pungent enough to be tasted in the air. 

“You've gotten real mean, little man. You think some time in a facility makes you a badass?” Sabretooth chuckles, and Mortimer feels the vibration against his back. “Or maybe you didn't like me playing with your little bitch. He not pretty enough for you now?”

It takes Mortimer a moment to work out what Sabretooth means, and there's an awful, terror-filled moment when he pictures Kurt. The beast of a man means the kid though, he realizes. 

“Mate, if that's your idea of play, remind me not to be your enemy.” He says, keeping his voice level. Sabretooth feeds on fear, and Mortimer will be damned if he lets any of his show. 

“Yeah,” Sabretooth says. “Because we're pals, aren't we?” 

Mortimer feels his temper fraying, the threads just barely gathered in his control, but he will not react. Even if Sabretooth decides that today is the day he wants to really try it on with Mortimer, he's not giving him the satisfaction.

“I just don't get you, Toad.” 

“I imagine there's a lot of things you don't get.” He can't help himself, the man just walks into them. 

“That the way you want to be talking to me?” He leans in and take a deep whiff of Mortimer's hair. “Didn't wash your hair well enough. I can smell him, even under the cigarettes. Good enough to track. Maybe he wants to play with me?” 

“Try it.” Mortimer says, the hot rush of rage almost breaking him. “Try it, and I swear, I'll use your head for a paperweight.” 

“Sounds like the Toad has a _squeeze_.” His claws are piercing Mortimer's skin, pressure on his windpipe enough to make the fingers of his left hand twitch. “He pretty? I bet you like 'em pretty.” His breath smells like he hasn't cleaned his teeth in a week, as he he smirks at Mortimer. “I like 'em pretty too.”

“Oh?” Mortimer feigns interest. “Didn't realize we played for the same team.” He hits a nerve and Sabretooth makes a throaty warning growl. “Hey, you brought it up, not me.” He's all innocence and smiles as he turns to Sabretooth. The man's hair is on him, and he wrinkles his nose, because the animal probably has nits or something. 

“Keep pushing me,” Sabretooth growls. “And I'll make him scream.”

“Touch him, and you won't even have time for that.” Mortimer promises in turn. 

“My, my, you can practically smell the testosterone in the room.” Mystique enters, looking thoroughly bored with the both of them. “I could have sworn you had a talk with Erik yesterday, Sabretooth.” She says, eyebrows raised. “Something about not causing harm to your brothers-in-arms.” She's beside them now, arms crossed casually across her bare breasts. “Seemed like a long talk.”

He glares at her, but releases Mortimer and takes off, in a whirl of coat and furs.

“Don't need you to save me.” He tells her, and pulls out his pack, flipping open the paperboard box with his thumb. 

“Yes, you appeared to have it all under control.” She says, with a sneer, and helps herself to one of his smokes. He lights it for her, then his own.

“How's the kid?” Mortimer's looked in on him, but the kid's been knocked out every time. 

“Sleeping, still. He's in pain whenever he's awake. It seems like the merciful thing to do until he heals a bit more.” She takes a drag, but it's out-of-practice, clumsy. It's been awhile since she indulged then. “Erik won't kill him. He's still a brother.” She frowns. “More like he's necessary. He's loyal to Erik, and protective.”

“So it's alright then that he tried to fry the kid?” Mortimer asks, disgusted. 

“I don't know.” She says dismissively. “What matters is that you finish your chores.”

“Exoskeleton is nearly done. I'm leaving off the pack until the kid is well enough to test it.” He eyes the mostly-completed project, then the other table, with the sheet over the destroyed husk of the prototype. He's not pleased about having to start from scratch. It's more work that he didn't need.

“So,” She says, turning her face to him. “Is it true? You have a _squeeze_?” She says the word with a touch of a sneer.

“I might.” He says, figuring it's harmless to tell her something, after his frustrated question a few days ago. It's probably more harmful to keep secrets from her. “Don't know yet. Could be serious.” He can't fight the grin on his face, and she catches it. 

“Looks like it already is.” She says, and he shrugs. “Is it safe?”

“He's a mutant.” Mortimer says, because that will be enough to convince her. “Just not the kind that needs to be in any wars.”

“Never figured you for a protective type.” 

“I'm not.” He says, with a shake of his head. “Just different, with him.” 

There's a sound from the hall, where the infirmary is, and they simultaneously put out their cigarettes in the ashtray before heading off to investigate. 

The kid is awake, and the sound is from the clock he knocked off the table. 

“Hey, what you breaking things for?” Mortimer asks, grabbing it with his tongue, bringing it to his hands. The plastic face is cracked, but otherwise nothing looks amiss. 

“Where'd you go?” He slurs, eyes on Mortimer. “Woke up and you were gone,” 

Mortimer sets the clock back on the table, smiling at the kid. 

“You miss me?” He asks, as he ruffles the kid's hair. “Lykos and the nurse are taking care of you, aren't they?” The nurse, a man Mortimer didn't know, had only a minor mutation, but it was enough to keep him loyal to Lykos.

“They're lame.” He mutters, and manages to crack a smile. “Does that guy really turn into a dinosaur?” 

“Indeed he does,” Mortimer drawls, pulling up a chair so he can sit beside him. “How's the arm?”

“Hurts like a bitch.” He says, his eyes coming into focus as the fog of sleep and drugs recedes. “Was up and moving last night though. You weren't here.” 

“Had plans.” Mortimer answers, choosing to leave it at that. “You're starting to smell. Going to need a wash.” Pyro just scowls at him, but there's a smile hidden in it. “Nurse can help you with that.” The man in question is lingering in the doorway, looking concerned. 

“John, do you need something?” He asks, and Pyro frowns.

“No.” He says, and the man leaves, off to the room next door, where Lykos has set up shop for the time being. 

“That your real name? John?” Mortimer asks, curious. 

“It's 'St. John', actually,” He says, pronouncing it properly as 'Sinjin'. “When I first came to the Institute, Dr. Grey didn't know how you were supposed to say it. She kept calling me John at first. And since Ororo barely spoke English, she kept calling me 'John' too, and it just stuck.” He scowls. “It's not my real name anyway. Pyro is my name.” 

“If you say so.” Mortimer says, with a shrug. 

“It is.” He insists, glaring at him. “Everyone calls you 'Toad'.” 

“Yeah, well, that's because my Christian name is 'Mortimer'.” Pyro raises an eyebrow. “And you thought St. John was bad. My mum is French, and she thought it sounded romantic, or some such rubbish.” 

“It's weird.” Pyro says.

“Yeah, well, St. John isn't in any Top Ten lists, so leave off.”

“No, I mean, you having a mom.” Pyro winces, and adjusts himself in the bed.

“I wasn't grown in a vat. I've got a mum and dad, same as most.” The kid is shit at hiding that he's in pain, hard as he's trying. “You need another dose?” 

“No.” Pyro shakes his head, lying through his teeth. “I'm fine.”

“Kid, it's just going to get worse. Better take it now, before it's unbearable.” Pyro scowls, but nods. So he gets up and pops in next door, on Lykos and the nurse. 

“By god, are you actually coming to see me willingly?” Lykos drawls. 

“Kid needs something.” He says, and the nurse stands to take care of it, leaving Lykos and Mortimer mostly alone. 

“Something else?” 

“The new pills didn't do anything.” He says, leaning on the door frame. “Barely made me tired.”

“It's your damn metabolism. You break things down too fast.” He nods at Mortimer's left hand, where his fingers are restlessly tapping his thigh. “Which is why you shouldn't smoke. Your body breaks the nicotine down too fast, which means you end up smoking more than you should.” 

“Either I smoke or I'm anxious. Take your pick.” He strolls in and sits in the chair opposite Lykos' desk, choosing to not indulge in his office. He really doesn't like the idea of Sauron chomping him to bits for the cheek. 

“For the pills not working, you look remarkably well-rested today.” He observes, putting down his papers. They're Pyro's medical sheets, Mortimer sees. 

“Yeah, well, found a better sleep aid, didn't I?” He says, with a smirk. 

“Please spare me the details.” Lykos orders dryly, and shuffles around in the papers on his make-shift desk until he finds what he's looking for: Mortimer's own file. “I assume you're old enough to know what condoms are, and your blood work is clean, for the time being.” He looks at Mortimer's file carefully, then back up at him.

“How much longer do I need to take all this?” He asks, raising his eyebrows at his sheet. 

“Until I say so. Why?”

“I don't want him to know about it.”

“You're rather heavily scarred from the ordeal. I doubt he's ignorant of it.” Lykos says, with another raised eyebrow. “Or do you not want him to know the true extent of your injuries?” 

“It's not his concern.” Mortimer says, and Lykos pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“You were experimented on. In ways even I'm not sure of. The damage to your tongue, your nerves, it's all more than even I was expecting.” Mortimer's well aware of the damage, but he also knows it's not permanent, that his body is quickly recovering, knitting itself back together in ways that would be impossible if he was human. “That said, I think interaction with people outside the Brotherhood is good for you. You have a tendency to cloister yourself up in here, with your toys.”

“The system that keeps us alive and hidden isn't a bloody toy.” He says, offended. “You have any idea how risky this location is? We shouldn't even be here. We're within a stone's throw of those X-Freaks,” _Of Kurt_ , his mind unhelpfully prompts, “And we're lucky SHIELD hasn't poked around here.” 

“As though SHIELD could break through your,” Lykos waves his hand. “Whatever-it-is you have up here.”

“I have a lot of things up here. Most of which is so far over your head, I can't even simplify it.” That's not entirely true, but Mortimer's feeling prickly. “But you people don't seem to understand that I'm not quite as clever as you give me credit for.” He doesn't know how to explain it, that just because he's good at maths doesn't mean he's some great infallible genius. SHIELD has real geniuses, mutants and other kinds of enhanced types. 

Mortimer would know. They'd nearly apprehended him more than once, and the close calls had gotten within a breath of him. He doesn't fancy what SHIELD would do with him if they ever got their mitts on him. He has a feeling it would make the facility he'd been in look like a cakewalk in comparison. 

Because SHIELD would want to keep him alive. 

Lykos is watching him carefully, analytically. 

“What?” He asks, frustrated. 

“I think you need a vacation.” He says in a very serious way, as though it's a medical opinion. “You were always high-strung,”

“High-strung?” He sputters.

“And I'm concerned about how the weight of everything is bearing on you. Instead of following my directions, you have gone against them. You work too much, you smoke too much, your caffeine intake is far higher than I like for someone in recovery, and your sleep habits were already abysmal.”

“I don't need the lecture.” Mortimer spits, his left hand still tapping a steady rhythm on his thigh. “I'm not the kid. I don't need you telling me everything I'm doing wrong.” 

“Apparently I do.” Lykos says. “And I remember when _you_ were 'the kid', _Mortimer_ ,”

“That ain't your right, using that name.” He says, annoyed by Lykos' presumption. That was his name to give, not Lykos' to steal and use freely. “Be like if I called you Sauron all the time, even wearing your nice face right now.” 

Lykos frowns at him, but not in the way Mortimer is expecting. It's more like Mortimer is a puzzle that Lykos can't solve. Mortimer doesn't like being analyzed like that, doesn't like anyone looking at him and trying to figure him out. 

He thinks of Kurt, and his soft eyes, patiently waiting for Mortimer to reveal the facets of himself without pressing. He's never met anyone like him, never met anyone who was willing to let everything happen in its own time. 

He thinks again that he might be a little in love with him already. He has no idea what to do with that. 

“Are we done?” He asks, now eager to escape the room, get back to work. 

“I suppose.” Lykos says. “In answer to your initial question, if you're ready to stop the pain medication, I'll stop giving it. Just because you don't have it doesn't mean the spasms won't come back, though. The supplements, I'm keeping you on. You need them.” 

“And the sleeping pills?” 

“Tell me Toad, what will your explanation be when you can't sleep?” 

“That I'm an insomniac.” Mortimer replies, and holds Lykos' gaze. “Don't treat me like an invalid, Lykos, and don't treat me like I don't know my own body. I've been injured plenty over the years.”

“Not like this.” Lykos insists. “This was consistent. You nearly died in there.”

“Yeah, well, I didn't.” Mortimer doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to think of how it felt near the end there, how he'd begun to realize he was actually on Death's door, powerless to stop it, for once. That he was weak, weaker than he'd ever been, and he wasn't going to get out, wasn't going to make it.

“That doesn't mean you're not still feeling the effects.” Lykos says, but Mortimer's done with this conversation. He doesn't need anyone playing psychoanalyst to him. 

“I know my own body.” He insists, and Lykos gives a noisy exhale of frustration. 

“Fine.” He agrees. “Do what you will. Obviously my years of medical school and experience are nothing in comparison to yours.” The sarcastic bite is unnecessary, but Mortimer's gotten what he wants. He stands and makes his way out, but Lykos isn't done. “Be careful, Toad.” He says, and when Mortimer turns, he's got his fingers steepled in front of him, looking at Mortimer over the edge of his glasses.

“What?” He asks, confused.

“I would hate to see you let something so inconsequential ruin your life.” He says, and then looks away, back at his files. 

Mortimer's confused and offended, but he's not sure which one is more important. Either way, Lykos has dismissed him, and he's free to leave. 

He leans in the kid's room first, and sees the nurse helping him out of bed, presumably for the wash Mortimer had advised. 

The boss is standing by his work desk, looking over Mortimer's progress, Mystique lingering beside him.

“Nearly done.” He calls out, more defensive than he'd like to be. “Just got a few more small things. Won't take me but a day.” 

“I'm glad to hear it.” The boss says, his hands behind his back as he peers at all of Mortimer's scribblings, though why, Mortimer doesn't know. There's nothing interesting there. “Tell me Toad, how good are you at deciphering code?” 

“What do you mean?” 'Code' could mean about a dozen things, not that he expects the boss to know that. The man keeps Toad and Mystique around for a thousand and one reasons, and technology is one of them. 

“If you were to intercept a message from a certain organization, could you interpret it?” He specifies, and Mortimer frowns.

“Depends on the level of sophistication we're talking. The grassroots groups I listen in on, I can crack their codes in a day or so. They normally use simple things.” Then again, groups like Friends of Humanity aren't know for being particularly bright. “We're talking government levels, like SHIELD, by the time I'd crack it, they'd have changed it. And that's assuming I could even get into their frequencies.” 

“Could you get in?” He asks, and Mortimer frowns in thought, tapping his leg. 

“So are we talking about SHIELD?” Mortimer asks, wanting to know exactly what's going on now. He meets Mystique's eyes and raises his eyebrows in question when the boss doesn't answer right away, but all she gives is the barest raise of her shoulder. She didn't know either then. 

“It appears they might be having disagreements within.” Magneto says, turning his head to read something Mortimer had scrawled down that morning, after he first arrived, a vague idea he'd had when Kurt had sighed about wanting to attend church in the area. 

“What kind of disagreements?” Mystique asks. 

“What to do about the mutant problem, apparently.” Magneto says, saying the phrase with a sardonic twist to his mouth. “They are of two minds, so I've gathered, and I'd like to know which way it is going, so we can be prepared.” 

“What are those two minds saying, exactly?” Mortimer asks. 

“One faction believes we have our uses,” Mortimer doesn't like the sound of that, and it doesn't look like Mystique does either. “And the other believes we have no use at all.” He likes the sound of that less. 

“I'm growing tired of humans thinking they can choose our future.” Mystique says, and Mortimer grins at her.

“Isn't just humans running SHIELD.” He points out. “Some of our own fancy their chances with SHIELD, and there's been rumors about some other kinds. Things even I'm not sure I believe.” Mystique raises an eyebrow, but Magneto's gaze is level, calm. 

“You don't believe in sleeping kings, Toad?” He asks, and Mortimer scoffs.

“I don't believe in anything I can't see.” He's heard those rumors, same as everyone on his grid, and if they're true, he'll quit smoking until the day he dies. Frozen in ice for sixty years, it's complete rubbish. “Doesn't matter what's true though. SHIELD is powerful. They want to start playing rough with us, we don't stand a chance, our numbers what they are now.” He thinks for a moment, grabbing his pack off the table and taking out a cigarette, but not lighting it. He pinches it between his fingers for a moment in thought instead. “Xavier's merry little bunch won't have any better luck. Not enough of them either. And Xavier won't kill.” It's an annoyingly useful thing, that the X-Men prefer not to leave casualties. “SHIELD doesn't subscribe to that frame of thought.” 

Magneto is reading Mortimer's notes, but the thing is, he wrote them in French, and the leader doesn't read French. Speaks it passably enough, by Mortimer's own assessment, accent no worse than usual, but he doesn't read above an elementary level. So he wonders what the leader is doing, and why he's interested. 

“Should I be worrying about SHIELD?” Mortimer asks, an uneasy feeling crawling across his skin like a spider. 

“We are always worrying about SHIELD,” Magneto says, which isn't an answer, not by a long shot. 

“Should I be more worried about SHIELD?” He asks, temper wearing thin. “I don't fancy my chances with them, so if they're sniffing around, we need to be moving.” 

“Scared, Toad?” Mystique asks.

“You want to be in their warm and loving care then?” He asks, and she tilts her chin in non-answer. She won't show fear, but that's alright. Mortimer's got enough for the both of them. 

“It is only that I do not like the idea of SHIELD divided. They are trouble enough as is.” Magneto says, and finally moves on from Mortimer's notes. “Do you mean that, Toad? That Xavier and his little band of heroes will be just as much at risk?”

“SHIELD isn't stupid.” He replies. “They know how much of a threat Xavier is. And he's just the biggest gun in their arsenal. Storm, Cyclops, the Wolverine. The Rogue.” He adds, with a pointed look. 

“She needs to touch.” Mystique points out.

“That's not the problem.” Mortimer says, and Magneto raises an eyebrow. “She doesn't just take power, according to some folks. She takes memories. Takes your personality. She ends up knowing things about you that even a telepath can't get at.” Mystique inhales sharply at Mortimer's words. “Want to guess how badly SHIELD wants their hands on her?”

“Are you sure about that?” Magneto asks. Toad nods. 

“The kid,” He nods towards the infirmary. “He was friends with her. He was mouthing off about her something fierce when he first got here. Talked about how she could remember how to play chess. Could remember how to speak German.” He holds Magneto's eyes. “Could speak Yiddish even, apparently.” 

Silence reigns for a moment. 

“I wonder what else young Pyro cares to share with us,” Magneto muses. “You should ask him, Toad.”

“Why me?” He asks, grabbing his pack off the table. This time, Mystique refrained, and Magneto frowned as Mortimer lit a cigarette and inhaled. 

“That's a dreadful habit, Toad.”

“Life is a dreadful habit.” He replies, feeling annoyed. “What do you want me to do about this SHIELD problem? I could ask around, if that's what you want.” 

“Do you still have friends with SHIELD connections?” Magneto asks. 

“'Course I do.” Mortimer says, inhaling deeply. “So, it's spying you want then?”

“I want information.” Magneto clarifies. “As much of it as you can get. I will not sit around and wait for them to decide which way they want to think.” 

“What do you want me to do?” Mystique asks. Magneto turns to her, and for the life of him, Mortimer can't read the look on his face. 

“Nothing, for now, my dear. I would rather have everyone close.” Magneto clasped his hands behind his back again. “When is Domino arriving?” 

“Sometime today, she said.” Mortimer replies, the nicotine settling in to his bloodstream at last, and calming his nerves. “You know that means anytime between now and tomorrow though, with her. And we've got some other friends stopping by. Thornn and Feral sent a message the other day.”

“I thought they were settled down?” Mystique asks. “What do they want?”

“Fucked if I know.” Mortimer says, feeling the words roll together from his accent even as he says it. It's been harder to not speak naturally, here lately, since he left the facility. Out of practice, or frayed nerves, he isn't sure which to blame. “Get the feeling it's a bit more than a chat over a cuppa though.” 

“You don't think they're in trouble, do you?” Magneto asks.

“Would that be surprising?” Mortimer asks, a touch of sarcasm leaking in to his question. Mystique rolls her eyes in quiet agreement, but Magneto's face is unreadable. “They'll be here in a fortnight. Traveling on foot, from what I could tell.” 

“Hm. Can we accommodate them?” Magneto asks, looking around the room. 

“We've got space.” Mortimer says. “And you know they'll stay well out of everyone's way. Especially with the company we've been keeping.” He doesn't hide his sneer. “Funny thing, they find Sabretooth offensive. Whatever could give them such an impression though, no clue.” 

“Are you questioning me, Toad?” Magneto asks, looking more amused at the idea than anything else. 

“I'm questioning why that psychopath is still here.” He says. “You know he's unstable, and he's still here?”

“Sabretooth is here for a reason, Toad. He just has to be kept in hand.” 

“And who exactly is going to do that?” 

“I will.” His leader snaps. “I won't have you questioning me, Toad.” Mortimer shakes his head and takes a drag. “Are we clear?”

“Yeah, we're clear.” He says, frustrated. “I'll ask around, see if anyone's heard anything about SHIELD lately.” He changes the subject back to the biggest problem, because if he stays on Sabretooth, he's liable to lose his temper. “You know, if this gets bad, it's not going to be practical to toe party lines.” 

“What do you mean by that?” Mystique asks. 

“You know what I mean.” 

She sighs, crosses her arms, and looks at Magneto. 

“I had thought of that already.” Magneto says. “Mystique and I have discussed the idea at length.” Mortimer doesn't doubt that. He's clever, but so are the two of them. He would never follow an idiot. Magneto never just has one plan. There's always a Plan B, and most of the time, a C as well. 

“It's not ideal.” Mystique says. “I have no desire to play house with them.” Mortimer doesn't doubt that either. “And I can't see Pyro enjoying having to return.” 

“We must hope it never comes to that.” Magneto says, and again, he frowns at one of Mortimer's scribblings. It's really starting to bother Mortimer, him looking over all of it, especially when he opens up one of the notebooks, one of the ones he scribbles down initial plans in, and inspects it. “You have been inspired lately, have you not?”

“Sorry?” He asks.

“You're designing an image inducer.” Magneto says, and Mortimer feels Mystique's curious gaze on him, without turning to her. 

“Just an idea.” He deflects. “I always have ideas.” 

“Indeed you do.” Magneto agrees, but his eyes tell Mortimer he knows exactly what's inspired this particular one. Mortimer looks away, taking a drag. He can't have this, can't have someone knowing so much about his inner workings. Especially not something that he is sure is a terrible weakness waiting to happen. 

He shouldn't be doing this. It's dangerous, for the both of them. How is he going to hide from the rest of the X-Freaks? Kurt is open, happy. He's sure to talk. What will he do? He's lost his bleeding mind.

“Do you think you can make it work?” Mystique asks, looking at it herself. 

“It's just an idea.” Mortimer says again, with a hitch of his shoulder. “Don't even have the basic design worked out yet, do I?” 

“Hm.” Is all Magneto says to that. “You have enough projects for the time being, I suppose.” 

“Yeah, I do.” Mortimer agrees. 

“I would be interested in it though.” Magneto says. “We have many members who would.” 

“I know.” Mortimer says. 

He gets back to work.

\- 

 

Kurt watches the controls with interest, as Ororo shows him how they work. 

“Logan's program is the most difficult. His healing factor makes training difficult. So he has five levels. The fourth and fifth need a password, it's 10-19-62, and we're going to rely on your discretion. If Logan asks you to run it, but you don't think it's a good idea, do not enter it. Alright?” He nods. “This is mine, there are four levels, and my fourth level is locked. The password is 29-10-56. Once again, run at your discretion.” She smiles at him. “I suppose we need to set a training program up for you, as well.”

“I prefer to be outside.” He says.

“Really?” She asks, typing in something. “Why?”

“Being outside, is like being home again.” She smiles, more to herself than at him. 

“This is Scott's program,” She continues, putting in a code. “Scott has three levels of training. The first level runs for an hour, the second for forty minutes, and the third is a twenty minute run. You must stick to these run times.”

“Why only twenty?” He asks.

“The third level is the most difficult. So far, Scott's managed to complete the run four times. His average time is sixteen minutes and twenty-three seconds.” 

“What is this for?” He asks, as the screen simulates the room changing. She said training, but now, looking at the stimulation, he has to wonder. 

“Training.” 

“Training for what?” 

“Power control, and combat situations.” She answers calmly, but he's confused now. 

“What do you mean, 'combat'?” 

“We sometimes come into altercations with certain groups. Private contractors, sometimes civilians, mostly the Brotherhood.” 

“The Brotherhood, that is Magneto, yes?” He's still not exactly clear on what this conflict is between the Professor and Magneto. “You fight him?”

“Sometimes.” She sighs, and pushes away from the keys so she can face Kurt. “No one is asking you to fight, Kurt. I know it goes against your beliefs. But sometimes, we have to, in order to defend our own.”

“By fighting our own?” 

“The Brotherhood aren't like us.” She says. “They hate humans. Magneto's goal is to wipe them out by force. He thinks mutants are superior to humans, and that humans will attempt to exterminate mutants before succession can happen.”

“Do you think that is true?”

For a moment, she is quiet, looking away, at the screens. 

“I don't think he's completely wrong.” She admits. “But his hatred runs deep, and he's not afraid to kill. More than that, he thinks he's justified. He's let his anger consume him. Humans,” She swallows. “They frighten me. And there's been times I wanted to kill, wanted to take revenge. But I've always stopped myself. It never even occurs to him to try. He's made it simple; us and them. It doesn't matter who 'they' are, they're not 'us'. That's how he thinks.” 

“And you do not?”

“I don't let myself.” She says. “No matter how tempted I am.” 

“I think you already do, on some level.” He points out. For her part, she doesn't argue with him on it, just stares ahead, mouth in a line. She is very beautiful, he sees, even angry and wounded. He wonders how anyone can look at her lovely contrast, her white hair and dark skin, and see something ugly, something that needs to be destroyed. 

“Perhaps.” She sighs, and spins a little in her chair. “But I have not let it consume me. So I still have that.” 

“What about the rest of them?” He asks, and then, out of his own curiousity, “Your student, John. What about him?”

Ororo closes her eyes and he realizes she's starting to blink back tears.

“Ororo, I am sorry,” He tries, but she holds up a hand.

“No, no, I'm sorry. I haven't really, with Jean, you know.” She gets herself under control quickly, and dabs at her eyes. “John was brought here when he was only five, you know. I was eighteen at the time. And he was such a sweet boy. He acted out, yes, but underneath, he was so in need of affection.” 

Kurt sees his mistake now, how he's forced her to think of something she would rather not. 

“You loved him.” He voices, and she nods.

“He was my baby.” She says, proving Rogue's gossip correct. “And Jean was my best friend. I lost them both.” She smiles, but it's not a happy one. “Jean always said I was harder on John. It was so obvious he was my favorite though. All the other children knew.” 

“Ororo,”

“I was too hard on him. Or I just wasn't paying enough attention. Jean was so sick, she kept getting these awful migraines, and having nightmares that kept her up all night. I was teaching her classes, and minding her students, and trying to help her. He needed me too, and I didn't see it. I couldn't help Jean either.” 

“You could not control what she did.” He says. “She had to leave the plane. It would not work with her on board. That's what Scott said, and that is true, isn't it?” 

“Her power was fluctuating.” Ororo confirms. “She had to get us away from her. But I still feel like there was something I could have done. Maybe I could have held the water back, with Bobby's help, and the Professor could have repressed her abilities. I don't know. I think about it all the time.” She says. “I don't know that I could have, though. My power doesn't work like that, exactly. And Bobby still doesn't have full control.” 

“Then why are you tormenting yourself?” He asks. 

“Because I should have been able to do something, for one of them.” She sighs. “I keep asking the Professor to look for him. He won't though. He says he doesn't want me going after him. He thinks John went willingly, and that we have to let him make his choices.” She sounds like she's choking up again. “But he's seventeen. He's not an adult yet, not for three more months, and I just want to bring him home.” 

“Ororo,” He says. “Seventeen is not a child.” 

“He's my child.” She whispers, mostly into her hand, and he thinks it might only be due to his enhanced hearing he even catches it. 

“I am so sorry,” It's all he has, and it's not enough. “Ororo,” He's pushed too hard in his eagerness to help, and she's openly crying now, muffling her cries into her hand. 

“I want him home,” She says. “You don't understand, no one does, not even Logan. You all look at him, and you see a traitor, or a stupid boy who doesn't know what he's getting in to. But no matter how old he is, no matter what he does, he is still _my_ John, the one who made me Mother's Day cards, and who gave me flowers he picked out of the flower beds on my birthday, who was everything to me, who was my child, and you want me to fight him, to pretend I never tucked him in, or kissed his bruises,” She breaks down, her shoulders shaking, and Kurt can't think of anything other than to stand, and wrap his arms around her shoulders. “He was no one else's,” She sobs, “No one wanted him. He was mine, my boy.”

“I am sorry, Ororo.” He says, because he cannot think of anything else. “I am sorry.”

“Bobby is so angry,” She says. “And he keeps asking to talk, about John, but I can't. What am I supposed to say to him? He's seventeen, and his best friend left him behind. He wants me to help him through this, and I cannot even get myself through this. No one wants to talk about it,”

“The Professor though,” Kurt protests, sure the man would help if Ororo would only ask. 

“Kurt,” She says, gently freeing herself from his loose embrace. He steps back, crouching into his more comfortable standing position. “Six of our children were held captive in a military facility, without being told why, after a traumatizing assault on their home. The rest of them hid in the woods, and later, the house of a parent nearby. They all need counseling. The Professor himself was drugged and,” She pauses, sniffing. “He's in no position to help. It's part of the reason Hank is coming home. None of us are equipped to deal with our students right now.” 

“I had not realized things were quite so bad.” Kurt says, thinking that he's an idiot. Of course the adults are in a bad place right now. “Will he be able to help that much?”

“Hank is good at organizing the troops.” She says. “I made some other calls though. To anyone I thought could help. Other graduates.” She sighs. “Cecilia, Dr. Cecilia Reyes, she's a trauma surgeon, but she's had training in other areas, she said she just had to put in for the time with the agency she's with. Tessa, she's got a kind of telepathy with machines, she's flying in. She's good with kids. And my friend Jean-Paul, he's offered to come lend a hand, even though he was never a student here.”

“Then, things will be easier, won't they?” Kurt asks. 

“I don't know.” She says, sniffing as the wipes away the last of her tears with her thumbs. “I hope so. The school has to keep going. These children, half of them have nowhere else to go. The other half, a lot of their parents could never afford the tuition for private schooling, and most of them can't attend public school. They don't have enough control.” 

Kurt is quiet, for a moment, out of lack of anything to say to that. The circus was his home, his safety. He doesn't know what it's like to not have a place to hide, a family to love and protect him. Even when he had to leave, he knew they would have taken him back, hidden him away, found somewhere for him. 

“I feel like we are constantly skirting the edge of disaster.” She continues. “Like we can never be stable. Horrible things just keep happening, and none of these children deserve it. I don't want them growing up like me, all alone, dependent on their powers, and the people who want to abuse them.” 

“You won't let it.” Kurt reassures her. “You're too strong.” 

“I don't feel it. Not right now. I feel so helpless.” She says. “I could always talk to Jean about anything. And now I can't.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. “I can't ever talk to her again.” 

“I am sorry for that.” He says. 

“There's nothing for you to be sorry about.” Ororo says, almost dismissively. “You didn't kill her. No one did, really.” She exhales, a soft huff of resignation. “Do you know, I actually wanted Magneto on that plane? He could have gotten us out, without her leaving the jet.” She smirks. “One of the few times I've ever wanted him around.” 

“Is he really as bad as you say?” Kurt asks. 

“It's complicated.” She replies. “He's a Holocaust survivor, you know. He was experimented on in the camps. And he was the only survivor. They killed his family.” She seems contemplative, while Kurt shifts on the balls of his feet. 

The Holocaust is like a frightening campfire story to him, the way it was told by his family. They feared it like the Devil himself, cautioned him it could happen again, only it would be them this time. They would be the ones with the numbers tattooed on their arms, the ones in gas chambers. 

“The Professor says it scarred him irreparably.” Ororo says. “That he can never forgive the ones who did it. He fears it will be us this time. The Professor says he will never go back in one. That he would die fighting.” She shakes her head, mouth drawn in a line. “I believe him. I believe Magneto would kill every human alive before he would ever allow one mutant to be tortured.”

“He would hold all accountable for the crimes of a few.” Kurt says. “Is that not the opinion we face? Every time one mutant does something the humans find reprehensible, they blame us all. When one of us loses control, we are all treated like loaded guns.”

“And when one of us tries to assassinate the president, we're all held responsible.” Ororo says, with a small smile. 

“That is unfair.” Kurt grumbles, ashamed. “And if anyone is to blame, it is Stryker, a human. He did it to us.” He includes the poor man in the wheelchair and the beautiful woman with the claws in his wording. He didn't think any of them were there of their own free will. 

“I don't disagree.” Ororo says. “The way the humans are though, they'll never see us as different. They're too afraid.”

“Now you sound like Mortimer.” Kurt says, shaking his head. 

“Who is that?” Ororo asks, and Kurt briefly fumbles for an answer. 

“He is a friend of mine.” Kurt lies, sort of. He thinks they are friends, but that is not really what they are. Kurt does not have sex with his friends. “He is often angry when this subject comes up.” 

“I don't think anyone here can blame him.” Ororo says. “Everyone's angry right now.” She looks at him, smiles, and taps something on the screen. “Except you, of course.”

“I never said I wasn't angry.” Kurt contradicts, his tail winding back and forth. “But anger is often a cover for other emotions. In my experience, it is mostly fear.” He flicks at an ear with his tail, an old habit, to make the earring jingle. But that was when he had worn bells on the hoops, when he had been home. 

“What are you afraid of, Kurt?” Ororo asks. She seems like she's trying to cover up her embarrassment by turning the subject to him. He decides to let her, because he doesn't want her to cry anymore. It makes him feel horribly guilty, for one thing, to bring pain to another.

“I am afraid because someone was able to control me, my actions. I do not even remember it.” His hand has gone to his rosary without even thinking about it, the familiar slide of the beads a comfort. “I am afraid I will end up in a place like that again. That we all will.” He still barely remembers that time spent there. He has flashes of pain, of fear, and the constant feeling of being ill. It's enough to let him know that he doesn't want to remember more, that it's best to let it go. 

“I will not let that happen again.” 

“How could it?” Kurt asks. “The man who gave the order, he is dead. He will never hurt anyone again. And many of the soldiers, the ones who obeyed the orders, they are dead as well. The place we were held, it is destroyed.”'

“There's always another.” Ororo says. “Always one more, full of people wanting to poke and prod at us, use us.” 

“I am afraid of those ones, then.” Kurt says, the beads falling through his fingers. “I must have faith though. Faith that the Father will see us through this, will not let suffering fall on to those who do not deserve it.” 

“Forgive me, but I've noticed he doesn't have a great track record.” Ororo says, and Kurt just sighs.

“I cannot explain the tragedies of the world. Only that I know He must have a purpose for them.” 

“Well,” Ororo says. “You'll just have to have enough faith in that master plan for the both of us.” 

“I will, then.” Kurt promises. “And as for this,” He says, gesturing at the room she called the Danger Room. “You will just have to train enough for the both of us.” She looks at him, trying to understand him, he thinks, so he explains. “I will defend this place. I will defend these children. But I will not engage in any kind of combat. Not unless we are under threat.” 

“Alright then.” Ororo agrees, and Kurt smiles, glad they understand each other.

But looking at the room, it makes him uneasy.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We'll sneak out while they sleep, and sail off in the night.  
>  We'll come clean and start over the rest of our lives._
> 
>  
> 
> Kurt dreams of God's love, and the many forms it takes, while Mortimer's own heart tears itself to shreds on Kurt's behalf. He's stolen so many things. Can't he steal Kurt? 
> 
> In the meantime, Kurt's identity, a mystery to him, is not one to those who know another with golden eyes and blue skin. Judgment is always compromised when it comes to family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N There is a plot to this, I swear. Eventually. For the people actually reading, I promise, I have a plan. That said, this was written while listening to "Sail" by AWOLnation and "Satellite" by Rise Against. Go listen. They are rather good. Especially "Satellite"'s bridge. It's beautiful. 
> 
> Also, I really am playing fast and loose with canon. They're just all so intertwined and confused. So I'm using what's plot-convenient.

On Friday afternoon, Kurt grades tests with no small amount of frustration. Teaching German was perhaps a mistake, he thinks. This must be what everyone felt like hearing him speak English, and he blesses them for their patience. 

“Well, hello there,” He looks up, and is taken aback by the man in the doorway. He is blue, like Kurt, but covered in a fine coat of fur, and huge, filling the doorway with his shape. He wears a suit, and glasses, bifocals, Kurt sees, perched on his nose, but no shoes. The eyes behind the lenses are yellow, slitted like a cat's, but warm. 

“ _Guten tag_ ,” He returns, slipping in his surprise. “Sorry, sorry, good afternoon.”

“You're German then?” The man asks, smiling cheerfully. “I speak five languages, but German is my shakiest, I must admit. My apologies.” He enters the room, and Kurt disappears, reappearing in front of him to take his extending hand. He blinks, surprised, then smiles again. “Ah, a teleporter. It's been a long time since I've had the pleasure of seeing one of those.” 

“I am Kurt Wagner,” He says. “You are?” 

“Dr. Henry McCoy,” He says. “But everyone calls me Hank. Or, if they're named Alex Summers, Beast.” 

“Alex Summers? That is Scott's brother, isn't it?” Kurt asks, pleased he might be finally able to follow the conversations around here. 

“Yes,” Hank says, “He'll be here within the week. He just had to finish up with his latest mission.”

“Mission?” Kurt asks.

“Oh yes, Alex works for SHIELD, a government organization. He was an active, for many years, but now that age is finally catching up with him, he's a handler.” Hank chuckles, in a good-natured way. “You'll like him. Most do.” He looks around at the classroom, still smiling, then looks at Kurt again. “You know, I remember when this was a sitting room. The place looks more and more like a school every time I come back.”

“No school I have ever seen.” Kurt says, choosing not to say that he has never actually been inside of any other schools. He's seen them on television though, of course. “Is there someone you were looking for?” 

“Oh?” Hanks asks. “Oh, yes, I was hoping to find Ororo, or maybe the Professor. Instead, I was mobbed by twenty very hyperactive mutants.” He grimaces. “The younger children have always been rather fascinated by me, I am afraid. They call me 'Kitty', which is probably in no way Alex's influence.” He says the last part with a touch of resigned sarcasm. 

“The Professor is teaching a physics class right now,” Kurt says. “And Ororo is with her, um, _literatur_ class.” He knows that's not quite right, that the German is a little different from the English, but Hank nods in understanding. 

“Is she still stuck with that?” Hank asks. “Perhaps that is one of the things I can relieve her of, then.” 

“If you would like to relieve me of my first-year German students, you are welcome to them as well.” Kurt says, but Hank just raises his eyebrows.

“I think I will limit my good deeds to the ones that won't have me in danger of committing a homicide.” Hank says, and Kurt grins, chuckling a little. “I used to teach Latin, for the science and language oriented students. That was hell enough for one lifetime, I assure you.” 

“The students are rather trying, at times. I am grading tests now, and one of them actually turned in a page full of scribbles of dragons eating Logan.” They had been rather good scribbles though, he had to admit. 

“Ah, Logan.” Hank says. “Ororo has told me about him, but I've had yet to meet him for myself. She vaguely mentioned you, in her phone call, but she was a bit sparse on detail.”

“There is not much to tell.” Kurt says, remaining vague. He doesn't know if Hank knows what Kurt did, the trouble he caused, and if he doesn't, Kurt would rather keep it away. “I was an acrobat, in the Munich Circus, since childhood. That is all there is.” 

“Well, it's good you're here. Ororo says you're the only one who has their head on straight, after what happened up at Alkali Lake.” He says. “Understandable, of course. Jean, Ororo, and Scott were always a close knit group.” 

“I think she exaggerates.” Kurt says. 

“Well, in any case, we're all coming home to help. Though I think Scott needs Alex, more than anyone else.” Kurt frowns at that. 

“Then why did he wait so long?” 

Hank sighs, and pushes his glasses up his nose. 

“Alex and Scott have a complicated relationship. Alex is a complicated person.” 

“Most people are.” Kurt says, not unkindly. It's not his place to judge other people's relationships, or their motivations, especially not a stranger. “Are you going to teach then?”

“Yes. The more advanced sciences, mostly, might even take over one or two of the math classes. Those are all Jean's,” There's a pause in her name, a huff of breath. “Those were all of Jean's classes.” He corrects. “I was able to wrangle a mechanical class out of Alex, and perhaps, if I'm persuasive enough, a drawing class. I imagine some of the students would enjoy it.” 

He looks at Kurt again, and it's a funny look, one Kurt can't define. 

“Is something wrong?” He asks.

“No.” Hank replies, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, it's only, you look a little like someone I used to know.” 

Kurt's surprised at that. He crouches a little more, tail waving back and forth in interest. 

“I do? Who?” He asks, but Hank just shakes his head. 

“It's only a vague, superficial resemblance.” Hank says. “Not relevant. I'm just getting old.” 

Kurt tips his head to the side, confused, but they're interrupted. 

“Hank!” Ororo says, as she comes in, and wraps the man in a hug, her arms just barely getting around his massive shoulders. “I'm so glad you're here!” 

“Your hair,” Hank says, as they pull away from each other, Ororo's smile big enough to split her face. “You cut it. And dyed it.” 

“Do you like it?” She asks, fingering the end of one of the black streaks.

“It looks lovely.” Hank says.

Kurt smiles to see her happy, pleased something has managed to cheer her up. 

“Where's Alex?” She asks, looking around, as though the man might be hiding.

“He was delayed.” Hanks says, and Ororo's face falls a little. “SHIELD, you know.” 

“Yes. SHIELD.” She says, shortly, and frowns. It's quickly a smile again though. “Come on, the Professor is eager to see you, I know. The students will be happy to get out ten minutes early too.”

“Of that I have no doubts.” Hank agrees. He turns back to Kurt. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Kurt.”

“You as well.” Kurt says, and they leave. 

He stays where he was for a moment, and then goes back to his desk, sitting in a crouch on the chair. He should finish grading, he knows, but his mind has caught on Hank's words. A little like someone? Who? He's never met anyone he looks like, not even close. 

Still, he said it was only a vague resemblance. 

His mobile, on the desk, vibrates, and his heart flutters. Only two people text him, and one just left the room. 

_-Hey love-_ It says, and that's it. Kurt can hear it in Mortimer's voice though, and he smiles. 

_-Aren't you supposed to be working?-_ He manages, after a few minutes.

 _-Tea break-_

_-More like a smoke break.-_ Kurt chides. 

_-Need to, these tossers I work with.-_ The reply says. _-You busy tonight?-_

 _-I could be less busy.-_ Kurt writes. _-Did you want to see me?-_

_-Haven't seen you since Wednesday.-_

Kurt smiles to himself. Wednesday morning had been nice, if not hurried. Mortimer had a job he had to go to, eager as he'd been to keep Kurt in bed, and Kurt had class, eager as he'd been to stay. 

_-Do you miss me?-_

_-Come by the flat at eight. You haven't any classes on Saturdays.-_ Mortimer sends, instead of rising to the bait.

Kurt bites his lip, still smiling to himself. He knows what Mortimer is asking for. He doesn't mind at all, indeed, he wants to go and spend the night in Mortimer's bed. Spend the morning there as well, maybe.

 _-Ja-_ He types, wondering if Mortimer will remember. 

_-Ja-_ Is the reply, and he feels his stomach erupt in a thousand butterflies. 

The stack of papers refuses to shrink under his gaze, and he starts again on them, determined to finish. He still needs to draw up his lesson plan for next week as well. 

He finishes the tests within the hour, and his lesson plan is completed in another. The sun is already slanting down in the sky, turning the room golden. He likes the look of it, the way it softens everything. It reminds him of a church he'd attended in Scotland. 

He'd been nineteen, when they toured though Scotland. The church had been old, small, and stone. Plain, with only one stained glass window. When Kurt had gone though, so very happy to be allowed to attend church and take communion, sing hymns and hear service, it had been for a Wednesday evening. Sunday was spent either preparing or performing. So it had been Wednesday, right when the sun was setting. The inside of the church had been beautiful in the light, as the house of God should always be.

He longs to attend church here. It's been so long since he's been able to attend services, and it's just not safe here. He misses it deeply, the comfort of it all. 

“Kurt?” It's Rogue, at the door. “You eating?” 

“Yes.” Kurt answers, teleporting to the other side of the desk. “What is downstairs?” 

“Salad, grilled asparagus, and some kind of fettuccine. Kitty and Sooraya cooked, so no meat.” She sighs in disappointment, and Kurt winces in sympathy. Kitty is a vegetarian, and Sooraya is a Muslim. 

Kurt's never actually met a Muslim before, the circus being rather isolated, but Sooraya had done her best to explain her clothing and dietary needs to him. Mostly, Kurt had been confused, and she had been frustrated. She'd promised to just find Kurt a German translation of the Koran in the end. He's looking forward to reading it, and had enjoyed her reading of her own copy, even if he didn't understand the language. In turn, she'd liked inspecting his rosary and reading his hymnal. 

“If you don't like what they make, you could always cook.” He says, and she makes a face.

“Yeah, not likely.” She dismisses. She huffs and leans against the door frame, waiting for Kurt to gather his things. “You have plans tonight?” 

“Yes.” He says, as he sticks his phone in his pocket. “But I do not need to leave for another two hours. Why?” 

“I'm bored.” She says, twisting her scarf in her fingers. “Guess I'll just have to live vicariously through you.” 

“You and Bobby are not going out?” He asks, curious, but she just shrugs in an offhand sort of way.

“Bobby's not speaking to me right now.” She says, rolling her eyes. “And here I thought only girls pulled the silent treatment.” Kurt laughs and tucks his papers into a folder to take back up to his bedroom. 

“Why are you two not speaking?” He asks, as they step into the hallway. 

“We got into a fight, about John.” She says. “He started up on him again, and he started saying all these awful things about what he was going to do when he saw John again. I got tired of it and told him he was just running his mouth, and that he needed to let it go.” She sighs. “So it of course ended with us yelling at each other.” 

“I'm sure things will work out.” He says,

“And baby bunnies will start falling out of the sky.” She says. “I don't know what's going to happen with us at this point. He's leaving for college next year anyway.” 

“Don't be so quick to end it.” He cautions. “Just because you are angry now does not mean you will not later forgive him.” 

“Yeah, tell me that when your boy pisses you off.” She follows it with an elbowing to his ribs, so he tugs her hair with his tail. 

This of course escalates, and Rogue is just laughing through a “Kurt, you're such an ass,” as he teases her hair before teleporting away when they see Hank standing in the hallway. 

He's watching them, and it makes Kurt nervous. It's not like how Scott laughed at them before. It's not a warm expression at all. 

“Hey Dr. McCoy.” Rogue says, crossing her arms over her chest. It's defensive, and Kurt moves closer to her, crouching more, his own version of her gesture. If she feels unsafe, he feels unsafe, even if he doesn't know why just yet. 

“Rogue,” He greets, his face still strangely hard. “Kurt. I see you two are friends.” 

It's a strange thing to say, and Kurt is truly confused. 

“Yeah, we're friends.” Rogue says. “Um, we were just heading down to dinner. Are you coming?” 

“Actually, I want to get started getting the labs back in order. If they're this big a mess when Cecelia gets her, she'll have my head on my plaque.” His expression is softening, warming back up. Kurt has no idea what made him so suddenly unfriendly towards them, but it puts him on his guard. He makes a note to himself to not be so open with Hank. 

“Alright then.” Rogue replies. “See you later.” She grabs Kurt by his elbow, and he leaves with her, nodding at Hank before he turns. 

They get around the corner, and Rogue shudders.

“What is wrong _liebling_?” Kurt asks. 

“Everyone was so excited about Dr. McCoy coming, but when he saw me, all he did was glare at me. Like I'd done something wrong.” She shakes her head. “I've never even met him. Did you see the way he was looking at us?” 

“It made me uneasy, I admit.” Kurt says, wondering what he's missing. “He was much friendlier earlier, but there was a tenseness I could not understand.” 

“Do you think maybe he knows?” She asks. “About Magneto?” She brushes the white streak behind her ear nervously. “Or about you?”

“I am sure he does.” Kurt says. “But both of us know that what happened was not our fault.” 

“Does he?” She asks, jerking her head back towards where they left Hank. 

“Rogue, do not jump to conclusions.” Kurt says, placing a hand in the middle of her back as they walk down the hallway. He's been making a conscious effort to touch her more often, though he's careful to keep himself out of harm's way. He thinks if she becomes more physically comfortable with him, they could work up to testing her abilities. 

“Well, it's hard not to when a big guy like that is staring you down.” She hisses, not pulling away from his hand. 

“I am sure it is something else.” He replies, but she rolls her eyes.

“Seriously, this thing you have, where you want to believe the best of everybody? It's going to get you royally screwed one day.” She says. 

“And when it does, you can say 'I told you so', and I will not protest.” Kurt says, as they turn into the kitchen. 

Sooraya and Kitty are just finishing up, while two of the other students are taking plates out of the cabinets. 

“Mr. Wagner,” Sooraya says, her eyes brightening. “I finally found a copy in German for you.” She sighs and shakes her head. “There must not be a lot of Muslims in Germany. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. The bookstore special ordered it for me.” 

“Why didn't you just look on Amazon?” Kitty asks.

“What is Amazon?” Sooraya asks, and Kurt's curious as well. 

“Oh Christ,” Kitty says, handling a large bowl of salad. “Sooraya, we talked about the Internet.” 

“I do not understand, what is Amazon?” Sooraya asks again, following her into the dining room with another bowl. 

Kurt waits until they're gone, then looks to Rogue.

“What is Amazon?” He asks. 

Rogue claps her hand over her face and shakes her head. 

-

In Professor Xavier's study, Hank pours two fingers of whiskey for himself. 

“What can you be thinking, Charles?” He asks, with a frown. 

“So, you have worked it out then?”

“He teleported right in front of me.” Hank replies, exasperated. “I've seen many teleporters, Charles. They all jump in different ways. Except him.” He smiles. “And he's his mirror image, except for the coloring.” 

“He's not him though.” Charles says, in a determined tone. 

“Did you know about him?” Hank asks. 

Charles shakes his head. 

“Seeing him was a shock to me too, Hank.”

“So you knew who he was, the second you saw him. And you let him into the school, with the children, with Cerebro,” Hank says, gesticulating with his free hand before he takes another drag of the whiskey. 

“He was raised in the Munich Circus.” Charles says. “By a woman named Margali. What her connection is to either of them, I have no idea. Kurt thinks of her with all the warmth of a son.” He folds his hands in his lap, looking pensive. “He does know he's adopted. Other than that though, he knows nothing.”

“Are you sure about that? Absolutely certain?”

“Yes,” Charles insists. “Kurt is entirely what he appears to be. He's true to his beliefs, to his family. He doesn't have a violent bone in his body.” 

“Oh yes, peaceful people attack the President of the United States,” Hank says.

“He had no control.” Charles reminds him. “He barely remembers any of the incident. Nothing of the White House.” 

“Charles,”

“I did a thorough sweep of his mind before I let him stay. I swear, there was nothing in there to cause concern.” 

“He is Azazel's son!” Hank says, too loud, and quickly lowers his voice. “You know what that man is like. He's a sociopath, there is a genetic marker-”

“Azazel isn't a sociopath.” Charles says. “You forget, I've been in his mind. More than once. Azazel is the result of years of conditioning, of an extremely violent life. In any other regard, he is as sane as any other man.” He smiles wryly. “Although I'm not sure if anyone should find that comforting. And in any case, his mother is also just as sane as the next person.” 

For a moment, Hank is silent. 

“Are you sure?” He asks.

“Blue skin, yellow eyes. Who do we know like that who associates with Azazel? Or at least did, around thirty years ago.” Hank stares at his glass, then finishes the whiskey, looking sorely tempted to refill it. 

“I almost didn't believe it.” Hank says. “When I saw him, I thought 'no, no it can't be', but then, there he is, in front of me in a puff of smoke. Smiling at me.” He gives in and pours another glass. “Of course, Azazel would have run me through on sight. Kurt shook my hand. I was friendly with him. Azazel's son!” He says. His first sip of this particular glass is more conservative, and Charles watches as he swirls it in the tumbler. “He stands differently. He wants to crouch, stand on the balls of his feet. And his hands, of course.”

“He's not like Azazel in other respects either.” Charles says, thinking. “Azazel can't move like Kurt can. But Kurt can't teleport like Azazel. He needs to see where he's going. He didn't inherit Azazel's innate sense of structure, or his ability to sense others. Not only that, he can only take one person at a time.” 

“I can't believe he was never approached by the Brotherhood.” 

Charles nods, because Hank has stated what he himself has been questioning. Yet there is nothing in Kurt's warm, open mind that gives even a hint of deceit. He's never once had anyone ask him to join the fight. Not once.

He's not sure what to think of it.

“And the girl?” Hank asks. “You scanned her too?”

“The day she arrived.” Charles says. “She's the same as Kurt. Only she was left at the River Oaks Hospital in Mississippi when she was about three months old, and adopted by a couple within the week. She's never been contacted as far as she knows.” 

“I saw them in the hallway today.” He chuckles, but there's no humor in it. “You would think they'd grown up together. I've never been so frightened in this school.” 

“Hank,”

“Charles, listen to me, please,” Hank pleads. “Your judgment is compromised in this situation. You have to know that.” 

“I know what I'm doing.” Charles argues.

“You brought their children into this house!” Hank snaps. “Azazel's son, and the daughter of who knows who, and you brought them into our home, with the children! You have put us all at risk Charles, and for what, a chance that the apple really will fall far from the trees?”

“Hank, do not condemn them for the sins of their parents,” Charles says, but Hank is looking at him now with disappointment and anger.

“Charles, please do not tell me you think saving her children will somehow save Raven. That ship sailed when she left you to bleed to death on a beach.” Hank inhales deeply, his breath shuddering. “Who is the girl's father? Do you know?”

“Hank,”

“Do you know?” Hank demands. 

“I have some ideas, but nothing definite.” Charles says. “Nothing I can even prove without Raven's input.” 

“I can't believe you did this.” Hank says. “Charles, what are you thinking?”

“Just,” Charles replies. “Just let me handle this as I see fit, Hank. I know what I'm doing.” 

He hopes he's not lying. 

 

-

Mortimer exhales against Kurt's skin, feeling his stomach untwist from the knots it's been in as he does. He's been missing Kurt like a withdrawal, and to have him back is like a cigarette after three days clean. 

Kurt makes a noise, soft, as Mortimer sucks a mark into his collarbone, his shirt mostly unbuttoned, showing all the blue, the brands burned into him. 

In his lap, Kurt is warm, heavy, the buckle of his belt occasionally rubbing against Mortimer's stomach through the fabric of his shirt. Mortimer's been thinking about getting it off, in between his explorations of Kurt's mouth and neck. He's been hard since they started, since Kurt crawled into his lap and started kissing him, not ten minutes after he arrived. 

Kurt pulls his mouth back up for another long kiss, one that makes him want to pin Kurt to the floor already. This is nice, yeah, but he needs to be on Kurt now, his brain says. 

Just another minute of this, he thinks, and then they can move forward. 

Kurt's hands on the fly of his jeans changes that plan. 

“Impatient,” He says, as Kurt manages it. “Are we going to do this on my couch?” 

Kurt's gotten his own trousers undone, and suddenly his hand is there, around Mortimer's cock, and he can't think of anything else to say. 

“You have arguments?” Kurt asks, his voice heavy beside Mortimer's ear.

“Not a single one.” He says, and Kurt chuckles, his hips moving against Mortimer, his cock nudging Mortimer's shirt. “Just a tick,” He says, and grabs the bottom of it, pulling it off so that he's bare-chested. 

Kurt's eyes are heavy-lidded, as his tail arcs up and over, running up Mortimer's arm, over his half-sleeve. 

“You like them, don't you,” He says, not a question. Kurt's eyes flick back up to him, his pupils dilated so that there's just a ring of gold around the black. In the dim lighting, they're darker, and so is Kurt's skin. He can't help himself as he darts forward, re-claiming Kurt's mouth, for another kiss that goes on forever as Kurt's hand tightens around him. 

He takes Kurt in hand, gently at first, trying to find the right grip. When Kurt gasps, he thinks he might have found it. He flicks his thumb over the head, playing with the foreskin a little, and Kurt makes another little noise. Mortimer's mind can't help but wonder what Kurt would sound like if he sucked him off, and he bets he can find out later tonight, if he plays his cards right. 

Kurt comes first, into Mortimer's hand and across his stomach, but he doesn't relinquish his grip on Mortimer. He keeps going, even as his spine curls in relaxation, his forehead resting on Mortimer's shoulder, until Mortimer finally comes. It's on Kurt's shirt though, and he laughs a little at that, resting his head on the back of the couch. 

Kurt mutters something in German that he doesn't quite catch, and finishes unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it over his shoulders. With a shrug, he uses it to clean Mortimer's stomach, then drops it on the floor. 

“I take it you're going to nick one of mine again?” Mortimer asks, running his palm up Kurt's bare spine. 

“You want me to put on clothes?” Kurt asks, smiling while doing his trousers back up, while Mortimer takes care of himself. “I could put on clothes.”

“Or you could walk around naked.” Mortimer suggests, grinning at the idea. “I wouldn't mind.” 

Kurt's cheeks are darker, and Mortimer thinks it might be a blush. He cups Kurt's face and kisses him, letting them fall back against the couch together, still kissing, but more casual now, less desperate. 

“Why isn't this done?” Kurt asks, touching his half-sleeve.

“I was almost done with it, then work got busy. I just haven't rescheduled yet.” Mortimer explains, looking down at it. “I have a guy here, on this side of the pond. He's an import like us though. Ireland.” Kurt's interested, he sees. “You want to come watch?” 

“I love watching artists work on skin.” He keeps touching the inked skin, like he did Mortimer's tribal branch the first time. 

“Yeah?” Mortimer asks, feeling a little mischievous. He swipes his thumb behind Kurt's ear, kneading his fingers into the back of Kurt's neck on the way down. He's rewarded by Kurt's little groan, his fingers pressing into the ink on Mortimer's skin. “Would it get you off, seeing me getting inked?” 

He thinks it'll make Kurt shy away, but Kurt looks up at Mortimer from under his lashes, a look Mortimer had no idea could be so arousing. He tilts his head as he traces the outline of the tribal tattoo, and licks his lips. 

“Maybe if I was the one doing it.” He says, and Mortimer suddenly can't think of anything hotter.

“Can you?” He asks. 

“No.” Kurt says, with a shake of his head. “I was still an apprentice when I left the circus. I can brand, and do outlines, but shadowing and coloring are beyond me.” 

Mortimer's disappointed by that, but then Kurt starts kissing his neck, and he's not thinking much at all. He turns them, pushing Kurt down onto his back, with him on top, so he can encourage one of Kurt's legs around his waist. The other man is just as flexible as him, and he does what Mortimer wants with ease, pushing them together. 

The rhythm that starts is lazy, as his body works itself back up to attention, already needy again, his system so quick, always too quick. Too much nicotine, too much caffeine, too much sex. He can never have enough. He thinks he might never even come close to having enough of Kurt.

At some point, one of them, Mortimer isn't thinking straight enough to remember, gets them free again, and he buries his face in Kurt's neck as he thrusts against him, still slow, so slow it almost aches. He wants to spend time on Kurt, enjoy this while it lasts. He's under no delusions that this is a forever kind of thing.

Because Kurt's going to find out. And when he does, it's over for Mortimer. 

He drives the thought from his head by nipping at Kurt's neck. It makes him sigh and wrap his arms around Mortimer's shoulders a little tighter, the leg locked around his waist squeezing when Mortimer thrusts down. It makes the hold tighter, better. 

“Want you,” He mutters, for no reason other than that he does. He doesn't know if Kurt hears him, isn't sure if the humming noise is acknowledgment, or just a noise. It doesn't matter, he supposes. 

The heat inside, all of it for Kurt, burns him up, makes him feel like he really will never have enough of Kurt to fill his need. He shouldn't be letting anyone so close, shouldn't be letting him get under his skin. People who are close to you can hurt you more than anyone else, he thinks. When Kurt leaves him, it's already going to sting. If he's not careful, it'll end up killing him. 

Kurt comes with a whimper against him, splashing across his stomach. He's not slow to follow, and he lets himself relax for a moment before he grabs the already-dirty shirt off the floor and wipes them down. 

Kurt makes that humming noise again, and smiles up at Mortimer, looking as content as a cat in sunshine. He even moves his tail like a cat's, the way it curls around them, winding around Mortimer's thigh a little, just enough to let him know it's there. 

Mortimer climbs off him, more than a little reluctant, doing up his trousers again as he takes the shirt to the laundry, stepping around his work as he does. 

When he gets back, Kurt is still sprawled across the couch, but he's tucked back in and wearing Mortimer's shirt. 

“You little klepto,” He accuses, cupping the back of his neck and kissing him. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I like seeing you without a shirt.” Kurt says, his eyes following Mortimer's chest. He laughs at him, and kisses him again, wondering how many times Kurt can get him off in one night. He's never wanted anyone like this, never wanted to just be close with another man. He's the first to admit he's not affectionate, his use of pet-names only an inherited habit he'd been unable to drop. He wants to touch Kurt though, wants to call him 'love', and thinks he might even mean it one day.

Christ, he's so fucked. 

“Too cold for that.” He replies, and stands straight, heading into his bedroom to get another, a long-sleeved one to keep the marks out of sight. Kurt may like seeing him like this, and Mortimer won't deny how prideful that makes him feel, but he doesn't like seeing the scars. 

He pulls it over his head, straightens it out, and runs his fingers through his hair. This is the worst decision he's ever made, he thinks. He's fucked himself so badly this time.

Well, he thinks, if he's already fucked, might as well enjoy the rest of the trip. 

“Do you want to go out?” Mortimer asks, walking back into the living room. He sits beside Kurt, and lets Kurt swing his legs over Mortimer's thighs, so that his knees touch Mortimer's chest. 

“Later maybe.” Kurt says. “I am sleepy now.” 

“Are you?” Mortimer teases. “Now, why could that be?” Kurt just smiles though, and sits up, so they can kiss. 

They do end up sleeping in Mortimer's bed, but only for an hour or so. Then Mortimer feels like stretching his legs, so he convinces Kurt, and it's not a hard sell, really, to take a ride on the bike down to a park he likes. It's closer to Mortimer's flat than the one by Xavier's school, so it has the benefit of them being undiscovered by nosy students, he hopes.

God, he hopes. 

He throws an arm around Kurt's shoulders as they walk, because it seems like the right thing to do, but after awhile, he drops it down so he can smoke. Kurt frowns at him, but Mortimer just raises his eyebrows, daring him to raise a fuss. Kurt refrains, but Mortimer can see him biting his tongue. 

“Problem, love?” He asks, blowing out a smoke ring. 

“Don't pick a fight.” Kurt warns, grinning at him as he crosses his arms. “You're killing your lungs. No wonder I won that race.” 

“Oh, you want to bring that up?” Mortimer asks, taking another drag. “How about you won because you cheated?” 

“Did I?” Kurt asks, stepping backwards. Mortimer likes the promise in his smile, and puts his cigarette out. 

“Where to then?” He asks. 

“We passed a statue, on the way in. A man on a horse.”

“We did.” 

Kurt disappears in a puff of smoke, and Mortimer swears as he whirls around to see him on the lamppost, smiling, waving a little. 

“You little-!” He stops himself, and takes off, using his tongue to swing up on the lamppost, but Kurt's already gone to the next, taunting him. 

“So that is your tongue!” He says, sounding cheerful, but then he's gone.

Mortimer pursues, feeling like he's always a step behind him, as Kurt moves like a cat through the trees and lampposts, a true acrobat, just like him. 

Kurt disappears from his line of sight, but he doesn't think much of it. He can hear him moving, can hear the creak of the branches under his weight, the leaves that brush over his coat. His world has gone tunnel-vision, his only focus the next tree, the next post, the next jump. It's so easy, always has been. 

“You are too slow!” Kurt calls, and Mortimer grins, as he shoots out his tongue, and grabs Kurt by the ankle, knocking him off his too-sure feet. He falls, but then there's just smoke and an acrid taste in his mouth. Still, it gives him an advantage, and he's ahead, but only for a minute. 

Kurt tackles him, landing on his back, and he twists in the air, tries to get a hold of him, but then the world goes odd, black, then bright and warm, then there is grass under him, and Kurt on top, pinning him. He struggles against him, but finds Kurt is strong, possibly as strong as him.

“ _That_ was cheating,” Kurt says, smiling over him. 

“Says you.” Mortimer replies, smirking. “You never said our talents were off-limits.” He mocks, running his hands up Kurt's sides, his own shirt fitting Kurt as well as it fits him. Their builds are so similar, lean muscle and streamlined skeletons, meant for cutting through the air, the water, meant to be more than the humans they walk among. 

“You sabotaged me.” Kurt accuses, his tail winding above his head. 

“Yeah, and I ended up with you straddling me.” He smirks. “I win.” 

“Oh, is that how it works?” 

“If I say so.” Mortimer says, looking up at him, his dark blue skin, his golden eyes, his absolute perfection. “I want to steal you.” He says suddenly. 

“Steal me? From what?” Kurt asks, tilting his head. 

“Everyone.” Mortimer replies. “Keep you all to myself.” 

Kurt disappears from over him and reappears upside down, to Mortimer at least, as he crouches beside him. 

“To steal me, you have to catch me.” He says, and then he's gone, in another burst of smoke, reappearing in one of the trees, holding on to a branch with just his toes. 

“Is that the deal?” Mortimer calls. “I catch you, I get to keep you?”

“If you like.” Kurt says, smiling enticingly. He beckons, and falls back, into the shadows, Mortimer already in pursuit. 

He pushes hard, grabbing on to the branch Kurt's fingers are still just brushing, but too slow, just a second too slow, as Kurt darts ahead. He keeps going though, determined, set on this prize above all others. He wants him, wants him like he's never wanted anything in his entire life, and he hates it, the way it's consuming him. He's been driven by so many things in his life, by anger, by hatred, by fear, by pride.

Never love.

His lungs burn like they never have before, as he gives one final leap, and gets his arms around Kurt, three steps from the statue, pulling him hard to his chest. He covers his eyes with one hand, remembering Kurt's weakness, and he sees him smile, his teeth bright in the darkness. 

“Got you.” Mortimer says.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt and Mortimer share a few intimate moments, safe in their own little world, while around them, a storm brews, SHIELD, the Brotherhood, and the X-Men at its epicenter. How far does trust really go when you know one of your own might finally have something else to fight for?

“Been awhile, Mort.” Liam says, as Mortimer unbuttons his shirt and discards it on the table. “You got a friend then?” 

“This is Kurt,” Mortimer says, as Kurt carefully pushes back the hood that's covering him. It doesn't cover his face, but Kurt feels safer with it up, Mortimer's noticed. Liam, for his part, only does a double-take. 

“Aren't you interesting?” He says, and leaves it at that, patting the chair that he wants Mortimer to sit in instead. “Alright mate, we finally finishing this thing?” 

“No, I'm here to have a cuppa and a chat.” Mortimer replies. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you have a nasty mouth?” Liam asks, not sounding offended. “Now, before you think about it, you have to know, those bastards from the government say I can't have anyone smoking in here anymore.” 

“What?” Mortimer asks, feeling a note of panic creep in. 

“Bastards,” Liam mutters. “Bloody nanny state this is.” He puts on his gloves and pushes on Mortimer, telling him to lean back in the chair. “I mean, if I want to kill my lungs on my own property, and let my clients do the same, that is my business, isn't it? Don't want to breathe it in, don't come here. It's that bloody simple.” 

He turns the needle on and begins the job, starting with the first layer of blue. The idea had originally been the impression of waves, in solid black outline, with layers of blues and greys, so Mortimer thinks it might be more than one session, but Liam is good. His mutation, a minor healing ability, helped considerably.

“So, what's with the brands?” Liam asks, directing the question at Kurt. 

“Angelic symbols.” Kurt answers, smiling in that way Mortimer is beginning to realize means he's especially pleased. 

“They your own work?” Liam puts more ink on the needle, giving Mortimer a brief respite. Coloring never feels like much, at least not to someone as used to it as him, more like the buzz of a razor over his skin than anything else, but it's still not a pleasant sensation. “It's nice. Where'd you learn?”

“I taught myself branding. Tattooing I was learning from a fellow circus member.” Kurt says, as Mortimer listens. 

“Ah, an apprentice.” Liam says. “I could use a new one, if you're interested. Got quite a few clients who'd get a kick out of being tattooed by you.” Kurt laughs, and Mortimer smiles at the sound. He gets the idea Kurt doesn't socialize much outside of the school, and that's a shame, he thinks. Kurt's a social creature by nature, eager to talk and be around people.

“Maybe I would be. I do not know.” Kurt answers, his tail winding as he pulls his feet up on the stool, so that he sits on the balls of his feet, elbows over knees. 

“You could tattoo me then.” Mortimer says, unable to resist, and Kurt looks away from his eyes, but Mortimer sees that he's smiling. 

Liam scoffs at him, and mutters something Mortimer doesn't care to catch. He winces, as the needle hits just above the crook of his elbow, but doesn't move. It's definitely a painful sensation now, and he must give it away, because Kurt's grinning at him. 

“Poor thing,” He coos, and Mortimer scowls in response. 

“So, we looking to do a full sleeve on this arm?” Liam asks. “Seems a shame to just leave this at half.”

“Stop trying to get money out of me.” Mortimer replies, and winces again, as the pain intensifies for a few minutes. “Maybe. Don't know.” 

“What happened with these?” He asks, nodding his head at the scars. Mortimer remembers that he hasn't seen them yet, and tries to come up with a believable cover story. He's got nothing though, so he settles for the truth. 

“Got picked up.” He says. “Bastards wanted to see what made me tick.” 

“I could have told them that.” Liam replies, with a huff. “Benson & Hedges, tea, and if all else fails, sex.” He's joking, but Mortimer feels the tension from him. None of them like to think about that sort of thing. Even Kurt is quiet, his smile gone.

“You do smoke too much.” Kurt says, after a moment.

“That he does.” Liam says. “Maybe you'll get him to cut down, eh?” 

“I don't think I can make him do anything.” Kurt says, and Mortimer smiles at him again, because he's making that face, that 'who, me?' expression of humility and innocence. He likes that face.

“Don't be so sure of that.” Liam mutters, and Mortimer looks away as he realizes Liam's watching him, smirking. He's only too aware of how overly-fond he's becoming of Kurt, he doesn't need Liam knowing too. “Mort tell you how we met?”

“No, he did not.” Kurt says, and Mortimer groans. He hates this story, almost as much as Liam loves to tell it. 

“I punched him in the face.” Liam says, cheerful as anything. 

“You hit like a girl, by the way.” Mortimer says nastily, then grimaces as the needle digs in, perhaps a mite harder than it needs to. 

“See, Mort and me used to run in certain circles, back when he was just a stupid kid looking to get himself in trouble.” He grins. “'Course, he's still a stupid kid looking to get himself in trouble.” 

“Piss off.” Mortimer wants a cigarette, bad, and he wonders if he can get away with smoking just one. Liam's never been one to appreciate the government, or its prying eyes, no matter what flag it's waving. 

“'Certain circles'?” Kurt asks, his tail tapping the earring in his right ear. “What do you mean by that?” 

“Oh, you haven't told him then?” Liam asks, looking absolutely delighted as he peers at Mortimer's arm. 

“Liam,” He warns, but the man just chuckles.

“Mort here used to fight in uh, how do I put this, underground matches? Like, not legal in the slightest? No one would ever bet on him, because he was just this titchy thing in his hoodie and trackies. Looked like one hit would take him down. Except then he took the hoodie off and I swear, he was just bones and muscle. Looks loads better now, he does.” Liam says, the compliment probably meant to soothe Mortimer's temper. “He already had the flowers then, the ones on his back. Well, I was watching a match, though it really wasn't much of a match, because Mort was basically using the poor sod for a punching bag. You know how many ways he's been trained?”

“No, I do not.” Kurt says, grinning at Mortimer.

“Liam, get to the point of the story.” Mortimer snaps, really needing a cigarette. 

“Alright, alright,” Liam concedes. “So I'm watching, thinking, 'Jesus, look at the lad move', and when he gets out, I figure I've got myself a business opportunity. I'll start inking him up, and when people ask, he'll direct some interest my way. I had just finished up my apprenticeship, you know, and gotten to England.” 

Mortimer remembers that, being nineteen and hating the world for every injustice it had delivered on him, finding satisfaction in the matches, in being allowed to actually fight, not like in a proper school. 

“Who you calling 'lad', you're only five years older.” Mortimer says, instead of any of this. He'll tell Kurt later, he thinks, explain his motives, let Kurt know he wasn't just some stupid bastard being violent for violence's sake. 

“You looked all of sixteen then, and that's me being generous.” Liam says. “Anyway, he comes out, and here's me, talking to him about the flowers. I tell him they're pretty, and I admit, it was a stupid thing to say. He gets all up in arms, asking me what I mean by that, and I tell him it means exactly what it sounded like, he deaf?” Liam chuckles again. “So this little bastard turns nasty as you please, and tells me he don't fuck the Irish.” Liam quiets for a minute, concentrating on what he's doing, then continues. “So I can't take that lying down. I punched him.” Liam seems rather proud, so Mortimer pops his little bubble.

“Tell him what happened next, why don't you?” He says.

“You always got to ruin it.” Liam grumbles. “Alright, if he must know, Mort here then knocked me out cold. I saw stars, not going to lie.” Mortimer doesn't say he was holding back. It'd just be petty at this point, and he'll admit he's petty, but not that petty. “I came to a few minutes later, and he's sitting on the bench with an ice pack pressed to my face.”

He'd been immediately sorry after laying Liam out, feeling like an out of control child for the lapse. So he'd gotten out a cold compress and waited for the man to come to. It was only then he'd noticed Liam had full sleeves and a chest piece peeking out of his shirt, and realized what a complete eejit he was. The man had been genuinely paying a compliment, not coming on to him. 

“I said I was sorry.” He says, and Liam nods. 

“That he did, that he did. I called it even, mostly because I didn't want him hitting me again. And that's how Mort and me became friends.” 

“I don't recall saying we were friends.” Mortimer comments dryly, but Liam just chuckles. 

“Don't worry when he talks like that.” Liam says, to Kurt. “He was raised by wolves, I think. Doesn't know how to be a proper gent, says whatever pops into his head. What's he called you when he's in a strop?” 

“I don't get _stroppy_ ,” Mortimer protests, despite it being completely true.

“He doesn't speak like that to me, so I don't know.” Kurt says, smiling a little. Mortimer can't think of why that's significant. He has no need to get on Kurt about anything, really. He doesn't irritate him at all, a rarity in the world at large maybe, but not impossible. Mortimer only insults people who need it, and Kurt doesn't. 

“Doesn't he?” Liam asks, and there's that look again, the one that says Liam knows how it is exactly, knows that Mortimer's fair gone on Kurt in a way he never is on anybody. “Ain't that something?” 

“Liam,” He warns, as Kurt's phone rings. 

“Sorry,” Kurt says, and steps outside the room to take it. 

“You don't call him names at all,” Liam says.

“Leave it.” Mortimer says, feeling prickly now. 

“Don't be working yourself up into a temper for me, yeah? I'm just teasing, though you'll admit, I deserve a laugh at your expense, after the hell you put me through.” He's referring to the quickly done and quickly forgotten relationship they'd once had, back when Mortimer was just twenty and Liam was twenty-five. “Must say though, you never looked at me like you keep looking at him. Believe me, I checked back then.” 

Liam had been older, and looking for something more than the young and angry Mortimer knew how to give. It had ended the way it began, quickly, and they're the better for it, he thinks.

“Liam, I'm telling you to leave it.” He says, and his friend shrugs. 

“I'm just looking out for you, Mort. Don't go getting your heart broken.” 

“You think he's going to get that close?” Mortimer scoffs, the fingers on his left hand starting to twitch from want. 

“I'm thinking he already is.” Liam says. “Like I said, Mort, you never came close to looking at me like that, and we were sleeping together for six months.” 

“Was it that long?” Mortimer asks, curious, and the needle again bites his skin a bit harder than necessary. “It was seven years ago, and you're still hacked off at me?” 

“I was hacked off at you the whole six months too.” Liam says, and grins. The needle skates over his skin more smoothly, and he relaxes, waiting for Kurt to return. “You're not the easiest person to get along with, you know. You want to keep him around, you better keep yourself in check. He likes you, but he's the kind who won't think that mouth of yours is funny, not like me.” 

“Don't recall you thinking I was very funny.” Mortimer reminds him, and they share a grin. Liam stops what he's doing, to clap a friendly hand on Mortimer's shoulder, then takes it away to keep working. “Don't worry about me.” He says. “I can handle myself.” 

“Yeah, well. I worry about you regardless.” He looks at the scars. “More than you're telling, isn't there?” 

“Leave it be.” He says, and this time, Liam obeys. “Alright, I need a cigarette.” 

“Only been an hour.” Liam points out. 

“It's been three since my last one.” Mortimer replies, getting to his feet to step out. Kurt is just hanging up as he shuts the door, leaving them alone together. Liam's shop is on the end of a few others in a strip, and they're at the side door, so they're isolated from prying eyes for the time being. 

“He works quickly.” Kurt says admiringly, his fingers not touching the new ink, but raising a tingle on Mortimer's bare skin. 

“Yeah, he does.” Mortimer replies. He wants a cigarette, but he wants Kurt more. He uses his right arm to pull him in, kissing him soundly. He falls back against the wall, Kurt against him, and reminds his brain that they are in a public place, where Kurt faces problems, and where just being together like this can be dangerous, if the wrong sort sees them. Physical mutants, both male, carrying on like this? Good way to get into trouble. 

He breaks the kiss, but keeps Kurt close, on his right side, and gets out a cigarette one handed, then holds it in his mouth while he lights it. 

“Do you think I should apprentice with him?” He asks, and Mortimer shrugs.

“If you want to. You seem to like it.” Kurt pulls away, probably to get away from the smoke. 

“His coloring is very good. He is doing a layering technique.” Kurt says, looking at Mortimer's arm again. Mortimer shrugs, because he doesn't know, and Kurt smiles at him again. “He calls you 'Mort'. Why?” 

“Didn't much like my Christian name when I was younger. Thought Mort was better, because of the double meaning.” He's a little embarrassed to admit it, and when Kurt chuckles, he sees he's gotten the joke. It's a stupid thing a teenager would think of, and he's never been one to like being confronted with his flaws. “Still not too fond of it. But it's the name Mum gave me, so I guess I'm stuck with it.” 

“You love your mother.” Kurt teases, tugging on his free hand. 

“Everyone loves their mother.” Mortimer replies, offhandedly. He's not what one would call a 'mother's boy', he thinks, not exactly, though his mother is stubbornly fond of him in a way he can't quite understand. He's closer to his father, really, the two of them more similar in temperament. “People who hate their mothers still love them in some way. It's biological, it is.” 

“I suppose.” Kurt says, with a shrug. “What is your mother like?” Mortimer raises an eyebrow at the question, then tries to think of a decent summary of her. 

“Same as most mums, I guess.” He says, frowning. “She's French, like I told you. Teaches poetry. Very romantic-minded, my mum. She used to read Byron to me when I was little. And Keats. Other things. She's the reason I wear the flowers, you know. She's obsessed with the symbolism of flowers in poetry. Taught it to me when I was still in the cradle.”

“What do they mean then?” Kurt asks, and Mortimer smiles, touching his face, and running the pad of his thumb over the brand on his cheek. 

“Stupid things.” Mortimer says. “Her favorite things, mainly. Daffodils, because they mean chivalry. Gladiolus for 'strength of character'.” 

“And the roses?” Kurt asks, his tail touching Mortimer's lower back. 

“Red and white roses together mean 'unity'.” Mortimer explains. “My dad always brings my mum red and white roses, because of them being from different places.” He can remember every event clearly, his father leaving them in places his mother would find, one red, one white, and one of the candy-cane striped ones, for him. “They have a good marriage, my parents.” 

He won't say what he's thinking, not out here. His mother wants him to be settled down so badly, wants him to find someone for himself that can be what his dad is to her. She worries so much, and he hates seeing her fuss over him. Hates seeing her under any stress. His father worries as well, but not in the same way. 

Mortimer thinks his dad has some ideas he hasn't shared with his mum about what Mortimer does out here in the world. Thinks his dad might be a bit more willing to see the things in Mortimer he'd rather they not. 

“What's your mum like then?” He asks, to get the subject off himself. He's suddenly uncomfortable with sharing in this public place, as he takes a drag of his now half-finished cigarette. 

“My mother?” Kurt asks, tipping his head to the side in a curious motion, as he touches his earring. He favors hoops, Mortimer's noticed, just like him. “My mother tells fortunes at the circus. She likes to sing, to dance.” Kurt seems at a loss, and Mortimer wonders if he has the same problem summarizing someone so complicated in his life. “She can be overprotective. She was very unhappy, that I chose to leave. She wanted me to come with her back to Germany, like I was a child still. Like I could not take care of myself.”

“Does she know how old you are?”

“Children are always children to their parents.” Kurt says, letting his earring go with a final tug. “Especially when their children look like me.” 

“I like how you look.” Mortimer says, because he does. Kurt doesn't really look like anybody else he's ever met, is a complete individual. Maybe he is just the sum of his contributing parts, and he can see where each put in their pieces, but the whole of him is entirely unique. He's Kurt, only Kurt, at least to Mortimer, no one's son, no one's agenda. “You're brilliant.”

There's that dark blue flush to his face again, as he looks at the ground, away from Mortimer. You would think no had ever paid him a compliment, the way he keeps turning away from Mortimer's. 

“I like how you look too.” Kurt says, biting his lower lip. 

Mortimer reaches back out for him, flicking away his cigarette, and tugs him back. 

“Do you?” He asks. “See, I already worked that out, after this morning,” He means when Kurt had been sitting on the counter, had pulled Mortimer between his legs, his coffee getting cold as Kurt woke him up in the best way possible. 

“Oi, is this the longest smoke break ever?” Liam is leaning out the door, scowling in annoyance. “Get back in here, Mort. I haven't got all day.” 

“Right,” Mortimer agrees, releasing Kurt. “Coming, I swear.” Kurt steps back so he can push off the wall, and they both head inside. Mortimer feels better after the fix, and he sits more easily as Liam starts again. 

Liam and Kurt get along, which is really what Mortimer was hoping for, though he has no idea why. Liam is one of his oldest friends, and one of the few he has stateside that he can actually depend on. He supposes he wants someone else to tell him that he hasn't lost his mind, that Kurt is worth all of this stress. Because for the life of him, Mortimer just can't make himself let go now. 

He's known him a week. 

“So, what projects you working on now Mort?” Liam asks. 

“Hm?” He asks, snapping out of his daze. 

“Got any new ideas in that genius brain of yours?” Liam says, slowly, like Mortimer is hard of hearing. “Last time I saw you, you were still losing sleep over the Can't-Tell-You-Shut-It-Liam.” Liam's nickname for the machine Mortimer had built for Magneto makes him roll his eyes. “What happened with that?”

“Fell through.” He replies. “Finishing up some minor projects now. And I am sleeping now, thank you.” 

“Is he then?” Liam asks Kurt, and Kurt shrugs. 

“He sleeps when I am there. I cannot say what he does the rest of the week.” Kurt says.

“Yeah, that's the thing with him. You got to wear him out.” Liam says, grinning a little as he draws back for more ink. 

“Like you ever wore me out.” Mortimer says, looking to Kurt to see how he reacts. He frowns a little in what Mortimer thinks might be puzzlement, then looks between the two of them with understanding. 

“You two were together?” Kurt asks.

“Worst six months of my life.” Liam replies, and Mortimer makes a face at him. “Your face will stick that way, you know. And it was, so don't start.” He starts back up, with a deep grey he's using for shadowing, and Mortimer winces again as it cuts into his bicep hard. 

Liam finishes with a pleased smile within the hour, and then runs his fingers gently over it. The sting leaves, as Liam forces the ink to settle and the irritated skin to stop swelling. It starts to itch as soon as his hand leaves, and he spreads his own brand of lotion over it before handing Mortimer a tin of it. 

“Alright, you know the rules.” He says, as Mortimer pays up in cash. “Don't scratch it.” 

“Yeah, I know.” He replies, grabbing his shirt. 

“Jesus,” Liam swears, and rakes a hand through Mortimer's hair. “You look like a right prat. Let me cut your damn hair before you leave.” 

This is how Mortimer gets a new haircut, Kurt pushing his fingers through it experimentally as Mortimer buttons his shirt. 

“Mohawk,” He repeats, sounding the word out. 

“It's an adult mohawk,” Mortimer corrects him. The sides have been left a little long, and the top isn't pushed up into spikes, but it's quite clearly a mohawk, in his already seemingly-rebellious green hair. His earrings were bad enough, he thinks. Liam always has to push it. 

“Why did he do this?” Kurt asks, frowning. “He seemed to think it was funny.”

“Liam thinks everyone should look like an extra from a bad sci-fi movie.” He replies. “And he likes fucking with me. Seems to think he's owed it. Looks better anyway.” 

“That it does,” Liam says, coming back in. “Hair like that mate, you have to just go with it. Loads of folks who'd love it.” He cracks his knuckles, as Kurt wanders away to look at the designs on the wall. “You should bring him over to my place. Having some people over next Saturday. You know, your friends? Those people you ignored for the past three months?”

“I told you, I got picked up, and no, I'm not telling you anything else.” Mortimer says, watching Kurt. “Listen, Liam, if anyone comes around asking about me,”

“I didn't see you, haven't seen you in months.” Liam says automatically. “Mort, one can't help but hear things. I got a reason to be worried?” 

“Not yet.” Mortimer says. “I'm trying to figure it out myself.” 

“Got a name?” 

“SHIELD.” Mortimer replies. “They been sending around a man called Fury, big man, black, missing an eye. And an agent called Coulson. My height, but makes himself seem smaller, white, shaved head. They're humans, but don't underestimate either of them. Fury's specialty is bringing in our kind, and Coulson apparently only looks like a suit.” The information he's been able to glean so far in his searches, none of it is all that useful to him right now. He can't do anything with it, can't know what he needs to be seeing. 

“And what about the rest of it?” Liam asks, keeping his voice low, even though Kurt is on the other side of the shop now. “That stuff about Tony Stark, and, well, that thing that can't be true, because it's impossible?” 

Mortimer huffs.

“Stark's a rich genius who built a weaponized exoskeleton. That's not unbelievable. No, what's getting me is that other one. Don't know what SHIELD thinks they're playing at. Man's dead, been dead.” 

“What are they after?” 

“They want to register us. Like we're fucking cattle.” Mortimer almost spits in anger, but thinks better of it. He doesn't know what will come out right now. “Question is whether or not it'll be for forced service or for elimination.” 

“I don't much fancy either of those.” Liam says, shaking his head. “Think it might be time for all of us to pull up stakes, go home. No jobs back home, but no job is better than detainment, isn't it?” 

“Wouldn't know.” Mortimer replies, and Liam shoves at his right shoulder. “It's not my fault I have a low-competition rate.”

“You're such a bastard.” Liam says, quietly, with a shake of his head. “Not all of us are as smart as you, Mort. Universities were still trying to headhunt you when I met you, and that was after they had gotten the full benefit of your charming personality, which believe me, says a lot about just how clever you are, because back then you could have made Mother Teresa violent.” Mortimer bristles a little at the insult, but lets it slide, because it's probably true. “Me, I left school at fourteen, and they were all happy to see the back of me.”

“You trying to puff up my ego?” Mortimer asks. 

“Not like you need it.” Liam says. “No, Mort, I'm telling you my honest opinion of you, and that's that I know you are cleverer than me by a long shot. So if you tell me it's safe for me for the time being, I'll trust you.” 

“Liam, don't put that on me, I don't need anymore responsibility than I already have.” 

Kurt's really interested in the religious images Liam has posted, and they're holding his attention for the time being. 

“Mort,” Liam says. “I'm not messing about here, alright? I'm trusting you to keep us all safe.” Mortimer meets his eyes, then looks away, shaking his head.

“I don't know how bad it is yet. I'm still trying to figure out what's rumor and what's truth.” He sighs, watching Kurt still. “I'll tell you the minute I know though.”

“That's all I ask.” Liam says, then cups the back of his neck, bringing their heads together in an almost-embrace, a companionable gesture. “Seriously, bring him 'round next Saturday. At around four. Everyone'll like seeing how he's got you wrapped.” 

“He does _not_ ,” Mortimer protests. 

“Don't lie to me, it's rude.” Liam says, as the bell on the door jingles, Liam's next client walking in. The man starts at the sight of Kurt, but plays it off like he didn't when he sees Liam and Mortimer. 

“Love, come on,” Mortimer says, turning Kurt with a hand on his lower back. “Let's get something to eat. I'm hungry.” 

“I want noodles.” Kurt says. “Noodles and beer.” 

“Yeah, alright.” Mortimer agrees.

“Oi, Mort,” He turns back to Liam. 

“What?” 

Liam takes the bandanna he's wearing and wraps it around two fingers with a cheeky grin. Mortimer returns with two upturned fingers, as he guides Kurt out the door. 

“I like your friend.” Kurt says, as they walk towards the bike. 

“Yeah? He's yours then.” Mortimer replies, annoyed. “We'll get some take-away, go to the park.” He pauses. “Only they don't let you drink alcohol outside here. Christ, this country's mad.” 

“Agreed.” Kurt says. “I miss home very much sometimes.” 

“You're not the only one.” Mortimer says. “Nix the park for now, I guess.”

“We can go later though?” Kurt asks, and Mortimer nods, smiling at his eagerness. Last night had been fun for him too, actually having someone to compete with outside. “Maybe you'll actually win this time.”

“I won last night.” Mortimer reminds him. 

“Only on a technicality.” Kurt says, looking peevish. 

Mortimer looks up and down the street, finds it deserted in the overcast mid-afternoon, then pulls Kurt close, putting his mouth right beside Kurt's ear.

“I caught you, and then I got to take you home and fuck you in my bed.” He says, feeling Kurt shiver a little at the heat of it. “That ain't a technicality, love. I won that round.” 

“So any time it ends with sex, you win?” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” Mortimer says, pressing a kiss to the spot behind Kurt's ear, making his spine curl a little in surprised pleasure. “Careful love, or we won't eat.” 

Kurt pulls away, and teleports, so that he's sitting on the bike, waiting for Mortimer. 

“I am hungry.” He states, firmly, and moves back so Mortimer can swing his leg over the bike. “We will eat before anything else.”

“If you insist.” Mortimer agrees, mostly because he really is hungry. “Let's go then.” 

He stops at a Thai place he trusts, mostly because all of the kids in the family are mutants. The youngest is only a toddler, but already freezing things with a huff of breath. 

“Mort!” She crows, walking on unsteady legs towards him. Mortimer crouches in front of her, and lets her grab at him with her chubby hands. Her eyes go saucer wide when she sees Kurt, and Kurt waves at her, obviously nervous of what might happen next. 

“Vivi, meet my friend Kurt. Can you say Kurt?” She shakes her head, suddenly shy. 

“Blue,” She says, pointing at Kurt. 

“That's right, blue. You can call him Blue, if you like.” She nods and giggles, then, bored with them, goes back to her cousin, sitting in the corner with her textbooks laid out. 

“Hi Mortimer,” She greets, barely looking up. “Hey, if you come help me with my homework, I'll give you a discount.”

“What is it?” He asks.

“Pre-calculus.” She groans, so Mortimer wanders over, to look at what she's doing. “How the fuck do I factor this?”

“You have to use _i_ ,” He explains, taking her pencil and showing her in the margins. “See, when you cross multiply, the _i_ squares, and you get a negative one. Easy enough.”

“Maybe for you.” She mutters, then yells something at another relative standing behind the counter. Whatever she says, it gets them a discount, while Mortimer goes over her work, and corrects everything she's done wrong. Which is a lot.

“I thought Asians were supposed to be good at math.” He tells her, and she smacks him with her spare notepad. “The fuck?” He asks, glaring at her.

“Do you ever stop being a dick?” She asks. “Jesus. And why the fuck are there so many letters?” 

“Oi, watch your mouth.” He says. “You're fifteen, you don't need to be talking like me already.” 

“Oh, I bet you were angelic when you were fifteen.” She shoots, along with a blast of icy air.

“Watch that!” He commands, sitting up straight to avoid it. “I have plans today that don't involve being frozen.”

“Oh?” She asks, looking at Kurt, as Kurt takes a toy Vivi is pressing into his hands. “Let me guess-”

“Don't push me.” He tells her, looking down at the problems. 

There's a popping noise, and smoke behind him, as Kurt teleports so that he's perched on the back of the booth, behind Mortimer. 

“When is the food going to be out?” He asks. 

“In a minute.” Mortimer says. “Lina, what is Descartes' rule?”

“I don't know.” She sneers. “If I knew, I would probably be able to do my homework.” 

Mortimer rolls his eyes, and writes it out for her, as he feels Kurt's eyes watching as well. Kurt probably never got this far in maths, he thinks. Maybe he wants to learn. Mortimer wouldn't mind teaching him. 

Lina sighs through the impromptu tutoring, and he would lay down money she's only half-listening, but Kurt's watching avidly, his tail winding around Mortimer's right bicep as he leans over him from his perch. 

“I can't wait til college.” She says. “One college level math, and that'll be it.” 

“You might like it a little more by the time you get there.” He replies, passing the final work back to her. “You're going to have to get a job one day, you know, unless you want to take over the family business. That requires maths.” 

“ _Maths_ ,” She repeats mockingly, right as her cousin announces their order. 

“Have fun.” He tells her, standing, Kurt following. 

“I was kidding!” She tries, but Mortimer waves her off without care. “C'mon, don't be an ass.”

“Nope.” He replies, opening the door for Kurt to go ahead of him. “Next time, don't have such a smart mouth with me.” 

“I'll poison you next time!” She promises.

“Like anyone would let you near the kitchen.” He sneers, walking out. He puts the take-away in his messenger bag, carefully arranging it, and hands it to Kurt. “Alright, let's go. Try to keep that steady, yeah?” 

“Your accent is thicker.” Kurt says, and Mortimer frowns. 

“Is it?” 

“It has been since we left the shop.” Kurt replies, looking back up at him after he adjusts the straps. “It's harder for me to understand you, when you do that.” He doesn't say it in a passive-aggressive way, or even an accusatory way. It's the same way he says everything, merely a stating of fact. “But I like the way it sounds.” 

“You're an odd one, love.” He says, deciding to kiss him. He likes kissing Kurt. For all that he's a grown man, for all that they've had sex, he still kisses Mortimer like he's shy, like he's not used to it. “Come on, let's go. Food's getting cold.” 

By the time they get back, his arm is itching, so he rubs some more lotion in. It'll probably need a touch-up anyway, but he'd prefer a quick one. 

“The colors are so good.” Kurt says, peering at it from beside Mortimer. They're sitting on the floor, backs to the couch, side by side. 

He uses his tail to touch it, and Mortimer watches him do it, not caring one way or the other. “He's very talented.”

“He'll be pleased to hear it.” Mortimer says, finishing his spring roll. “He's done all my work since I met him. It took me about a year to trust him again after we split up. Thought for sure he was going to do something for revenge, but he loves his own skill too much. Can't bear to put a bad tattoo on someone.”

“How long ago was that?” Kurt asks, and Mortimer can tell he's fishing. 

He leans over and kisses Kurt's neck, making him smile. 

“It was seven years ago, love. Trust me, Liam wants fuck all to do with me now.” He smiles. “I gave him hell. I'm lucky he didn't just kill me in my sleep.” 

“Why does everyone say you are difficult?” Kurt asks, tilting his head. “Liam said so. The girl in the shop,”

“Lina,” Mortimer says, and Kurt nods.

“Lina said you were always difficult.” Kurt taps his earring with his tail, and Mortimer slides his finger over it, over the cold metal. “You're never difficult with me though.” 

“You've known me a week.” Mortimer reminds him. “And maybe they just make me difficult.” 

“Maybe.” Kurt says, but smiling in a mischievous way as he says it. 

Mortimer's spoiling for another argument, maybe one that ends where the last one did, in bed, but his phone rings before he can do anything. The number is unfamiliar, but that doesn't mean a thing, not with his work. 

“Just a moment,” He says, and steps outside on the balcony, making sure to shut the door tight behind him. “Hello?” He asks. 

“Froggie,” The voice on the other end purrs, and he groans. “That's no way to greet me.”

“What do you want?”

He hears Domino moving, a rustling sound that makes him think she's in a tree, or a bush. Somewhere leafy. 

“Hey, you asked me to put my ear to the ground, sweetheart. I put my ear to the ground. You want to hear what I've been hearing?” She asks. When he doesn't say anything, she giggles. “Oh, you're not alone, are you? Probably at that flat of yours. You got any food in the fridge?” 

“You're not welcome.” He says shortly, and she laughs again.

“Is he sweet? I bet you like 'em sweet. Sweet like a cherry fresh off the tree,”

“Something important?” He cuts her off, not wanting to know where her line of thought is about to go. 

“Yeah, yeah.” She says, and he hears another rustle. She's not doing surveillance, or hunting then, if she's making this much noise. He wonders what she's up to, where she is. Hopefully not spying on him. She has a bad habit of stalking him and the others with her time off. “You wouldn't believe this, darling, but we're not the only ones sniffing around. SHIELD is too.”

“What's that mean, then?” He asks, suspicious. 

“Means I'm looking at a manila folder with your name on it, and sweet Jesus, is it thick. SHIELD likes you, baby.” She says, sounding almost impressed. “They have so many notes on you, it's like a novel. Lucky you though, no pictures, at least, nothing they can use to get an identification on you, or your real name.” He swears he can hear her grin. “You never told me you'd had an encounter with them a few years ago. Says here you eluded capture for a month in Indonesia, before they lost you completely. Now, what were you doing in Indonesia?” 

“Why are they looking at me?” He asks, as he starts searching through the things he left on the outdoor table, finding his cigarette holder. He gets one out and lights it off the old table lighter, taking a deep inhale. “Nothing interesting about me.”

“You seriously underestimate yourself, sweetie. If it makes you feel, better, mine is less complimentary. The words 'borderline psychopath' keep popping up. Oh, wait, no, this one outright calls me a psychopath and recommends 'kill on sight'. Well that's just rude. This next one claims I have 'antisocial personality disorder'. I do not.” 

“I don't give a fuck about what other people think is wrong with you. If anyone knows how fucked in the head you are, it would be me. And believe me, all of those assessments sound pretty accurate.”

“You're just being hurtful.” She pouts, and he rolls his eyes. “Do you want to know what I found out or not?” 

“Are you going to get to it?” He demands, resisting the urge to look back at Kurt through the glass. 

“Alright, alright.” She says. “No need to get _shirty_.” She sighs. “Our beloved Nick Fury is just barely holding down the fort it seems. He recruited Tony Stark, like you already know, and apparently, that was a _very_ unpopular decision on his part, so unpopular that a certain Bolivar Trask is calling Fury's command into question.”

Mortimer knows that name too well. 

“Who else got brought into the fold along with the playboy?” He asks. 

“Smart boy.” Domino coos. “It seems Dr. Bruce Banner isn't missing anymore.” 

This explains Trask's interest, he thinks, taking a drag. Trask hates their kind, and artificially powered mutates like Banner sicken him. Fury's always pushed the envelope with his recruits, and Dr. Banner and his other face, his not so nice face, Christ, that must have pushed Trask right over the edge. 

“We're fucked.” He sighs. “That man is a terrier.” He takes another drag, trying to think.

“Nothing my M40 can't solve.” She drawls, and hears paper moving. 

“Yeah? You try that, and even the Furball won't be able to sniff out all your pieces.” He sighs. “This isn't a game. If he's got any access to those files,”

“Trust me, Fury would sooner stab out his other eye before he'd let Trask near his private files on our lot or any of the others. No, Trask is still woefully uneducated about us or our capabilities. Too bad. He'd love you.” She teases, and he grimaces. “Anyway, there's apparently some in SHIELD who think Trask has the right idea. They don't like all these mutates running around, being treated just like they're real people. They want us locked up and tagged. Fury's telling them to go to hell.” 

“Damn.” Mortimer swears, leaning over the railing. “So he's our best bet right now.” 

“Looks like.” Domino agrees. “But Trask doesn't need Fury's help to start tracking us down.”

“I know that.”

“You know this is going to be war. This is it. The catalyst. This is going to be what defines the future.” She sounds almost eager, and that makes him uncomfortable. Out-and-out warfare isn't as appealing to him as it is to her, another of those little ticks that make him think Domino really does have a few screws loose. “Going to be the war to end all wars.”

“Someone already fought that war.” He snaps, irritated. “Don't be so quick to break out the champagne. The Boss doesn't want this just yet.” 

“The timing's never right for him!” She says, and he can hear her body moving, perhaps frustrated. 

“Because he wants things to go right.” Mortimer replies, finishing his cigarette off. He flicks it away, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let's just sort through all this, alright? Find the strings, give them a tug, see where they lead us. Until we know, keep your finger off the trigger.” 

“You don't give me orders.” She says, her voice low and dangerous. 

“No, I give advice. Good advice.” He says. “It's the advice I'll be giving the Boss about this. You can give him yours, and we'll see who he listens to, won't we?” 

“Fine.” She says, but it's lost the sharp edge it had before. “See you later, darling.”

He hangs up, and pockets his phone. For a moment, he looks out over the trees that line the back of the apartment building, the gardens the place has built for community use. It's a pretty place, and secure. It's why he chose it. 

The door opens. 

Kurt steps out, his hands settling in Mortimer's hips, a kiss pressed to the back of his neck. 

“Get bored?” He asks, and Kurt hums an answer, molding himself to Mortimer's back. “Sorry. Work.” 

Kurt doesn't say anything, and Mortimer turns, loosening Kurt's grip so he can. He pulls him in, kisses him. Kurt's been downing soda, and Mortimer can taste the sugar. 

“What are you after, then?” He asks, against Kurt's mouth. 

“Nothing.” Kurt answers, looking puzzled. “I like how you kiss me.” 

Mortimer's startled at that. 

“What do you mean?” 

Kurt smiles, and links his hands around Mortimer's neck. 

“I just like it.” He kisses him again, and Mortimer tries to figure out what he's doing that sticks out in Kurt's mind. But then he gets lost in what he's doing, bringing up a hand to cup Kurt's face. Kurt surges up against him, and Mortimer pushes back. Kurt's already getting hard against him, and Mortimer pushes again, until Kurt's up against the door, and Mortimer can get his thighs apart, so he can slip between them.

He gets him to bed, and doesn't think about SHIELD, Fury, Trask, or war for awhile. 

 

-

 

In the bed, the sheets tangled at their feet, Mortimer lies on his stomach, Kurt sitting up on his elbow.

He studies Mortimer's back, and the colorful ink that flows over it, and the new colors down his arm. The older they are, the simpler they are, less detailed and skilled than the newer ones. If what Mortimer says is true, then this must be proof of Liam's evolution in skill. But they all flow together, despite being completely different, and he is fascinated. He traces down the flower that looks to be made of welded metal, to the bright blue frog that sits in one of the petals. It joins with more metal, twisted designs that Kurt can't decipher in the dark, and more frogs, worked cleverly in, one a black design of swirls and lines hiding inside more black swirls, another just shadows in another design. Then there are the flowers, beautiful and blooming, all through the metal. 

He traces the red and white roses, and smiles. 

Mortimer huffs under him, and he starts. He's awake, Kurt knows, but he's been silent as Kurt explores.

“Ticklish there.” He mutters. 

“Sorry.” Kurt pulls back a little. 

“You don't have to stop.” Kurt bites his lip, but keeps going, down Mortimer's spine, the lower back a collection of machinery, exaggerated cogs and pieces. When he reaches Mortimer's tailbone, he shies away, embarrassed to go any further. Mortimer is comfortable with his own body, and Kurt's, but this is still new for him, and he's not sure about most of this. 

“You really like them, don't you?” Mortimer asks, eyes still closed. 

“They're beautiful. So colorful.” Mortimer rolls over, so he's on his side, and Kurt can see the fresh ones that wrap around his bicep again. The design is simple, he thinks, but still lovely to look at. It makes him think of the ocean, waves crashing on the rocks.

Mortimer moves onto his back, and raises a hand to stroke Kurt's face, looking thoughtful, as his thumb follows one of the designs carved in to his skin. 

“You alright?” He asks. Kurt nuzzles into his hand and nods. 

“This still makes me nervous. But, not as much now.” 

His heart had raced the whole time, the first time, when Mortimer had smiled above him, his hands everywhere. Last night and today have been easier, more sure of himself, more sure of Mortimer. Especially the section right below his ribs, where the muscles of his abdomen came together, where, when Kurt had stroked his fingers down, Mortimer had shuddered. He was very sure of that.

“I'm calm now.” He says.

“Yeah, sex'll do that for you.” Mortimer says, sounding sleepy. He rubs the heel of his palm over his eyes and yawns wide enough Kurt can see the green of his tongue. He's never seen anyone with a green tongue before. It's odd, and he's delighted that he's found someone with oddities that surprise even him. “What are you still nervous about?” 

“I was nervous after my first time with a woman too.” Kurt confesses, still watching Mortimer's mouth. His teeth are a little crooked. “That I had done something wrong, that she hadn't liked it.” His heart had never pounded like it did now though. 

Mortimer doesn't make fun of him, just watches him. “This is all alright, wasn't it?” Kurt asks. He doesn't think he needs to, but he wants to make sure, needs to hear that this is all in fact okay. 

“I don't know.” Mortimer says, and Kurt finds himself on his back, Mortimer's strength surprising him. “I could think of a few areas that need improvement.” He's teasing, Kurt realizes, and he smirks, letting his hands trace up Mortimer's back. 

“And what would your suggestion be?” 

“Well, you know the saying,” Mortimer says, leaning in so that their mouths brush. “Practice makes perfect.” 

A song Kurt doesn't know, loud and crashing, breaks into the moment, and Mortimer scowls, swearing. He gets off Kurt, and grabs his mobile, swinging his legs over the bed so that his back is to Kurt again.

“What?” 

With his hearing, Kurt can just barely make out the sounds of a woman's irritated voice. 

“What do you want now?” He asks, rather rudely, Kurt thinks. He's quiet beside Kurt, as the woman says something, asks something, Kurt thinks, from the lilt up in her voice. “No, I can't.” Mortimer says, and there's something, another question. “Having sex with my boyfriend, you stupid cow.” Kurt's stomach flips at the word, and he smiles to himself, despite Mortimer's insult towards the stranger. “Mind your own.” The voice talks some more, and Mortimer huffs, leaving the bed, heading out into the sitting room. Kurt hears him opening a drawer, and making assenting noises into the phone.

He loops his tail through his fingers, bored, then climbs out of bed as well, heading for the window. He parts Mortimer's heavy curtains, and peeks out at the street, the glass of the window freezing even from a finger's length away, the lights glowing through the fog, then lets it drop, heading to the washroom, where he lets the water run til it's warm. He wipes his stomach off with a washcloth, and rinses it out.

Mortimer still hasn't come back in.

He wanders out into the rest of the apartment, and he sees Mortimer sitting on the couch, scribbling down instructions on a notepad. 

“You are aware I am just one person, right? And I don't count the furball as an assistant. He doesn't even know what a spanner is.” He pauses. “I don't care what you call it here, you ruined the language, it's your job to figure out what I'm saying, not the other way around.” He pauses again, and Kurt hears the word 'Firebug', rather loud, before he turns on the tap to get a glass of water. “No, he's no good to me right now. I don't care if he's right-handed, he's not. He'll be lucky if he can be awake for more than a few hours right now.”

Kurt downs his glass, and rinses it out. Then he walks into the living room to watch Mortimer speak.

He wonders if it would be okay if he...

He leans down and presses his mouth to the back of Mortimer's spine, then up around to the space behind his ear. Mortimer doesn't shoo him off, just the opposite; he tips his head to the side to give Kurt room. Kurt nips his ear, and Mortimer actually makes an almost pained sound.

“Christ, talk faster woman. I have better things I could be doing right now.” He turns and meets Kurt, a quick kiss that leaves Kurt feeling mischievous. He leaps over the couch neatly and settles himself in Mortimer's lap, a leg on either side. Mortimer glares at him, but it's a completely different kind of heat than anger. 

He presses his chest to Mortimer's, and starts at his neck, pressing kisses there that have a bit of bite to them from his fangs, but Mortimer seems to like that. His hand comes up to clutch the back of Kurt's neck, kneading into it while he bites his lip.

“Do you need that by next week?” Mortimer asks, as his legs spread under Kurt, his cock hardening against Kurt. “Right. I'll get right on that. Round me up some assistants and I can get it done.” The woman says something else, and Mortimer smirks. “Yes, I am going to go back to shagging him. Have a nice night.” He ends the call and tosses the mobile carelessly onto the table. “Now, what to do with you?”

“How many ideas do you have, that you have to think about it?” He wonders what else Mortimer has in mind, what else they could do. 

“Oh, love, the ideas I have,” Mortimer says, with just a touch of lust. “Let me take you back to bed and show you one.” 

“Alright,” Kurt agrees, and looks over the couch, at the open door, and the bed beyond it. He managed it once, he thinks. He can do it again. “Hold on to me.” He kisses him and closes his eyes, thinking hard, and just like that, they're on the bed again.

Mortimer is staring up at him with wide, black eyes, his mouth pulling up in a grin.

“Have I told you lately how brilliant you are?” He asks.

“I could stand to hear it again.” Kurt replies, with a self-satisfied smile. 

“You're _brilliant_.” He breathes, and turns them over. “Let me show you how brilliant you are.” 

“What are you doing?” Kurt's curious. 

“Something fun, promise.” He starts kissing down Kurt's chest, running his tongue over Kurt's nipple, making him hiss. He's more sensitive than he realizes, but Mortimer just chuckles, and does it again, before he starts tracing down the marks on Kurt's chest with his mouth. 

He reaches Kurt's stomach, and Kurt realizes what's happening. His breathing speeds up, and Mortimer's hand settles over his heart, pressing down.

“Relax, Kurt. It'll be good.” 

“I've never done this before.” He says, and Mortimer looks up. 

“Really? You've had sex with women though.” He seems disbelieving, but not in a bad way. More amused, than anything else, which really doesn't help Kurt's embarrassment.

“Never anything like this.” He feels like an idiot, but Mortimer sits up and kisses him, softly. 

“It feels good. And I'm good at it.” 

He doesn't like being reminded that Mortimer has been with other men, that he has men Kurt can be compared to, men like Liam, and maybe found wanting. He wishes he'd experimented more, that he hadn't been so afraid, so he wouldn't be so anxious now. So he could be confident, knowledgeable. 

“Love?” Mortimer is tilting his head, eyes narrowed. “Gotta tell me what's going on in that head of yours.” 

“How many men have you been with?” Mortimer sits up, frowning. He's thinking. 

“I don't know.” He says, with a shrug. “First time I got off with a bloke, I was fifteen. Been a lot in between then and now. But I told you, I'm careful, and I know I'm clean. I wouldn't do that to you.” It had been between a hurried kiss while Mortimer got Kurt's trousers off the first time, a question of whether they needed something. Kurt had actually been confused before he'd shaken his head in embarrassment. Mortimer had taken him at his word, granted, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk, but still. And it wasn't like they had done anything that needed anything, Kurt thought.

Maybe? He isn't sure anymore. 

“That's not what I'm worried about.” Kurt says, when he thinks he's been quiet too long, and Mortimer's frown deepens. 

“Are you jealous?”

“Yes.” He admits, and Mortimer shakes his head, pushing Kurt down, down onto the bed, kissing him until he doesn't have breath. 

“Don't want anyone else, love. Just you.” He says, breathing the words like secrets into Kurt's mouth. “Christ, I want you. Have from the first day I saw you, in the trees. Never seen anyone move like you.”

“You move like me.” Kurt says, because it's true, and because he thinks he knows what Mortimer means. His whole life, he's felt like he's a separate entity, completely removed from both humans and mutants. He looks like no one else, but not only that, because for him, the world is an obstacle course, his body built so differently from everyone else's. He wants to climb, to jump, to _move_. And Mortimer is the same way, his body ready to spring forward, grab, flip. 

“You saying I'm a narcissist, love?” He asks, with a smile.

“No, that is not what I mean.” Kurt says, shaking his head. “I mean, I think we see a similarity, within,” He works his tail between them, and presses the spade against Mortimer's chest, right over his heart. “We don't see the world around us like the rest of them.”

“No, suppose we don't.” Mortimer agrees. He's soft, open with Kurt, and Kurt's not sure, but he doesn't think many people get to see Mortimer like this. It's a privilege. “You know, people ask me, if it's like flying, when I jump,”

“But it's not,” Kurt interrupts, and Mortimer grins. “It's not flight, it's work,”

“Yeah, but there's that place, you get to, where you see everyone moving, and they're just so damn slow,”

“And so limited.” Kurt finishes. “Their bodies are so weak, so stiff. They see nothing, only walls,” 

“And we just see a change of perspective.” Mortimer says, with a laugh. Kurt knows exactly what he means, how a wall just means go up, not forward. Walls are nothing, especially if there's a fire escape, or windows. If not, bricks, bricks are wonderful, with all sorts of catches for his hands and feet. “I never met anyone like me, you know. Met physical mutants, but none like me. No one who can do what I can.”

“Except me.” Kurt's never really met anyone like him either. 

“Think you might be a bit more flexible.” Mortimer admits. “And the teleportation, that's a plus in your column.” He seems to think. “But I have a wicked tongue, if I do say so myself,” Kurt pushes at his shoulder, still sore about Mortimer's cheating. “And I have one more trick, something I bet you can't do.”

“What?” Kurt asks, curious.

“I can breathe underwater.” He says, and Kurt thinks that one might really be a secret. He says it cautiously enough. 

“Can you, really?” 

“I'm amphibious.” Mortimer says. “I don't quite understand it myself. But I can, um, open my skin, kind of, and take the oxygen out of the water. Found out when I was ten. I got pushed into the water, didn't how to swim. I struggled, but I got tired, and I sank. But then,” His eyes are so far away, as he tells Kurt the memory. “For this minute, I was choking, my lungs were on fire, but then, I don't know. I could just breathe again. Got back to shore, shaking like a leaf. Walked home.”

“Why were you pushed into the water?” Kurt needs to know that part of the story too, because he has an idea it's a little more than a childhood prank. And the way Mortimer looks at him confirms it.

“Look at my eyes, love. My hair. Even before I really developed, it was pretty obvious what I was. They all knew. And my mum and dad weren't always there to protect me.” 

“Were they trying to kill you?”

Mortimer shrugs.

“Does it matter?”

Kurt honestly doesn't know. 

“It doesn't matter to me.” Mortimer continues. “What matters is that I got lucky. What about the kids who didn't?” He kisses Kurt sweetly, slowly. “What if it had been you?” 

“It nearly was.” Kurt says, and Mortimer frowns.

“What?”

“I told you, I once teleported three kilometers, when I was very afraid. You did not ask me what I was afraid of,” Mortimer has settled back now, and Kurt takes his arm, tightens it around his own waist. “I was twelve. And I left the safety of the circus. We were in Germany, a small town. Barely worth performing. I just wanted to see. But I was seen.” He doesn't like this memory, never has, but relating it is less painful here, in the dark, with Mortimer breathing against him. “There was fire.”

“What do you mean, fire?”

“Some people still take certain verses very seriously.” Kurt says, and Mortimer's eyes widen. “It never touched me. The smoke though, it choked me, and I was so afraid. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was on the other side of the village, back at the circus. I had just barely begun to teleport then. I have never been able to go so far since. It actually made me sick.” He had thrown up everything in his stomach in those woods, until there was nothing left, nothing but vile yellow stomach acid to spit at the ground while he clawed at the dirt, in agony, his lungs, nose, eyes and mouth absolutely burning. It had taken a half an hour before he managed to crawl back to the caravans on his feet and hands, to his family, to safety.

Mortimer is silent beside him, his face serious, deeply so, and Kurt is surprised at how it changes everything about him. Mortimer has always seemed to be laughing at some joke Kurt doesn't know, but not now. There's no light there now. 

“It was a very long time ago.” Kurt says, sorry he said anything if it makes Mortimer look like this. “And I got away.”

“I hate them.” He whispers, and Kurt kisses him, trying to bring him back to where they were. 

“No, no, don't,” He pleads. “They were ignorant, and afraid,”

“They were _wrong_ ,” He hisses, covering Kurt with his own body, like a shield between them and the world. “Christ, how can you be like this, how can you not be angry?”

“I am angry,” Kurt insists, “But an eye for an eye will make the whole world blind. We must forgive these things. Or we will be consumed by it.” He pulls Mortimer down to him, for another kiss, not even sure who is comforting who. “I believe everything has a purpose, even if we cannot see it. God is not cruel. So I must believe that my suffering was not in vain, that it was meant to teach me something. Or maybe it was meant to teach someone else. I don't know. I can't.”

“You are frustrating beyond all belief.” Mortimer says, “Love, they were going to kill you,”

“And I have forgiven them.” Kurt replies, as Mortimer frowns. “It is mine to forgive.” 

“You're infuriating.” Mortimer says, with a shake of his head. “You really are. I swear, I could forget your birthday, and you'd forgive me.” His accent is growing thicker again. 

“I am twenty-eight. My birthday is not terribly important to me.” He says, puzzled.

“Love, that wasn't my point,” Mortimer says, with a half-laugh. “You're driving me mad, you really are,” 

“So you must forgive me.” He says, and Mortimer laughs again, bending over Kurt to kiss his neck, his collarbone, his sternum. 

“Finding it hard not to forgive you.” He mutters. “I see this being a problem.” 

“I don't.” Kurt replies cheerfully. “Forgive me all my trespasses, all my sins, and everything will be so much easier.” 

He means it as a joke, but for just a moment, the hardness comes back to Mortimer's eyes. 

“Not sure you're the one who needs forgiving, love.” He says, and then they kiss again, Mortimer's hand moving down, wrapping around Kurt, and he forgets Mortimer said it at all. 

-

Domino shows the files to Magneto and Mystique with a grin, pleased at how much she managed to steal before she had to skedaddle. 

“My, my,” Magneto says, opening up Toad's. “They are very interested in him, aren't they?”

“Fury's always recruiting.” She replies, as Mystique leans over his shoulder, her spine bending in a way Domino can't help but envy. “He tried to recruit me and Mystique more than once. You think he never noticed Toad? I just can't believe Froggie never worked it out. He's so bad with people, it's sad.” 

“What could they want him for?” Mystique asks, and Domino hears the bare hint of protectiveness. Toad's still young, still awkward and angry, exactly the type to bring out what little dredges of maternal instinct the woman has. “They have Tony Stark, what do they need Toad for?” 

“Jesus, you really can't see?” Domino asks. “The boy is strong, and he's skilled, thanks to me and you. He's clever, can work out a security system faster than either of us now. And he's good at following orders. What do you think SHIELD wants him to do?” 

“They want him for covert operations.” Magneto clarifies, turning the page. “They think because of his parentage they could persuade him over. That is interesting. They must have gotten a genetic sample from him, to know that.” Magneto looks less than pleased that SHIELD has DNA on file for them, and Domino shifts guiltily. It's not like Toad is the only one who got caught a few times. 

“Just because mummy and daddy are humans doesn't make Toad any less of a mutant.” She scoffs, to cover up her discomfort, but she sees the way Mystique's eyes harden off. She doesn't agree with Domino. “He loves the Brotherhood. He'd never betray us.” She insists. 

“No, I suppose he would not.” Magneto replies, closing the folder, and taking out one from underneath. It's Domino's, and she's immediately pissed at the sight. They want to name-call, do they? The next time she runs into SHIELD, she'll show them 'psychopath'.

“Bastards don't know what they're talking about.” She mumbles, angry, so angry her hands are curling into fists. 

“Of course not,” Magneto agrees. 

Maybe she'll line up the bodies, carve a letter in each one. Spell out 'fuck you'. Yeah, she thinks. Yeah, that will show them. 

“Erik, look at this,” Mystique says, pulling out another file. “It's schematics.”

“For what?” Domino asks. She hadn't gotten that far in the pile, too interested in the personal files of her fellow Brotherhood members. 

“A collar.” She replies, frowning. “A collar that could repress mutant abilities.”

“Oh fuck.” Domino says. “That's not good.”

“Really?” Mystique asks, sarcasm dripping. “Call Toad, he needs to look at this.” 

Domino has her phone out, ready to call him for the third time that night, when Magneto stops her, lifting the item from her hand. 

“This can wait until morning.” Magneto explains. “These are still very early drafts, it looks like, and they're dated only a few days ago. I doubt they even have a working design in progress.”

“He should look at it as soon as possible though.” Mystique argues. “I don't know this technology, Erik. He does, he can see if they're on to something.”

“And he can do it in a day.” Magneto replies. “Toad's working on a little chore for me right now.”

Domino frowns, confused. The only thing Toad is doing is his boyfriend, to judge from that last call. What is Magneto talking about?

“Fine, Erik.” Mystique says, but she's clearly angry with him. She stalks off to sulk, leaving Domino with Magneto. 

The doors to the office close. 

“Sir?” She asks. 

“You know where Toad is right now.” He says, and she reluctantly nods. “I sent him on a little recruiting mission, but it appears Toad has, for once, let his emotions cloud his judgment.”

“He has emotions?” She asks dryly, raising an eyebrow. “Beyond annoyance and petulance?” 

“So it appears.” Magneto says, quite seriously. Now Domino really frowns. That's unlike Toad. He's always logical, underneath all of that pent-up rage, and for him to do something like what she thinks Magneto is suggesting is wildly out of character. At least the character she knows. 

It occurs to her, as she remembers a minute ago, when Mystique let on more than she should have about Toad's relationship with his human parents, that maybe she doesn't know Toad as well as she thinks. 

“Are you questioning him?” She asks.

“I'm questioning his priorities.” Magneto replies calmly. “He's intense, as I'm sure you know. Once something has his attention, it has it completely. And the potential recruit, Kurt Wagner, has his attention.” 

Domino feels her stomach twist at the name. 

“Is he really old enough to be sleeping with Toad?” She asks, startled by the idea. 

“He's twenty-eight, my dear.” Magneto replies, with a small smile. 

“Time really flies.” She says distantly, still feeling like all the air has been punched out of her lungs. Jesus, she thinks. Kurt. Little Boy Blue, with his big golden eyes, in her arms, cooing up at her like the little flirt he was. 

“Domino?” Magneto asks, shaking her out of her memory. 

“Does Mystique know about this?” She asks, even though she already knows the answer. Magneto gives her a look that confirms it, and she shakes her head. “So you've got Toad sleeping with him, for what? To lure him over?”

“That was not my intention in the slightest.” Magneto says. “Toad let himself be pulled in. He actively protested the recruitment to me, claims Kurt is a pacifist.” He clasps his hands behind his back as he circles his desk, to stand beside her. “Toad has never defied an order before. This could become a serious problem for us.” 

“So ban him from seeing Kurt.” She says, but even she knows that's futile. Toad is hard-headed. If he wants Kurt, he'll have Kurt, no matter what stands in his way. From the way it sounded on the phone, Kurt wasn't putting up any sort of obstacles anyway.

She sighs.

“What do you want me to do?” She asks.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Commander Fury and Agent Coulson make an appearance. Meanwhile, Kurt falls more in love every time he touches Mortimer, every time they kiss. Mortimer does too. But the secrets he's keeping are starting to weigh. In other news, Alex comes home to the mansion.

“We've had a breach.” Coulson says, fingers knit over his crossed legs. 

“Was it the one we were expecting?” Fury asks, not looking up from his paperwork. 

“She took the files on the Brotherhood, and whatever else she could grab.” He raises his eyebrows, the only sign of disapproval that one was likely to see out of someone as well-trained as Coulson. “Including what you wanted her to take.” 

“Good.” Fury says.

Coulson waits.

Fury says nothing.

“Sir,” He says. “Do you really think this is a good plan?” 

“No.” Fury replies. “But it's the only one I have.” 

“Understood, sir.” 

-

Sunday dawns clear and cold, with the taste of snow in the air. Kurt is quite happy to stay bundled up under the covers. He's alone though, he realizes. Mortimer's side of the bed is cool, so he's been gone for a bit now. 

Reluctantly, he leaves his warm cocoon, and ventures out. He checks the balcony, but it's empty. The pavilion below though is not.

Mortimer's body moves like water through the movements, one flowing into the next. There's no excess in any single motion, just like his movements through the trees before. He's efficient, in a way Kurt isn't. Kurt loves to make everything as elaborate as possible, because he's an acrobat, and people want to see the best show possible.

What Mortimer's doing is completely different. This is meant for no one but himself. 

Kurt steps back inside, and finds coffee brewed. He gets a cup, and a blanket, then sits outside on the balcony, on the cast-iron bench, watching Mortimer. He has no doubt Mortimer knows he's being watched. He's too good not to. 

Mortimer stops what he's been doing, and picks up a long stick, a staff, off the ground. He twirls it effortlessly, the motion so practiced it's obviously second nature to him now. Kurt watches him, fascinated, as Mortimer's movements become more complicated, obviously attacks and parries. The staff becomes less a weapon, and more a part of him. 

Kurt hasn't seen anything like this since the circus. Mortimer could have been an acrobat, a performer. Kurt can just imagine him breathing fire, can see how he'd love the skill it took. He likes mastering things, likes understanding things the way he understands mathematics. Seeing him yesterday, his quick writing on the girl's paper, how he solved what she couldn't in a matter of seconds, makes him think Mortimer is either more intelligent than he's letting on, or truly dedicated to what he learns. 

This might be both, he thinks. Mortimer's body is well-suited to the movements, just like Kurt's. But this kind of skill takes time. Kurt is a natural acrobat, but he's also worked at it every single day for years. It's why he's as good as he is, why he's become exceptional. 

The first flakes of snow begin to fall, but Mortimer is undeterred. If anything, his movements become faster, even more fluid, not a single break in them. 

But as the ground grows whiter, he stops, and begins to stretch his body out. Then he heads out of sight, back into the building, his staff over his shoulder. 

Kurt waits, and before long, he hears the door open and shut, Mortimer coming back in. He gets in the shower, Kurt thinks, so he waits, watching the pretty snow as it falls. He's always loved the snow, loved playing in it with his family. Now though, there is no one. No one but him. 

“Aren't you cold?” 

Mortimer is at the door. He snuck up on Kurt again, a skill that not many have. 

“No. The cold, it does not bother me the way it bothers others. I do not like it much, but I can tolerate more than many.” He pulls the blanket tighter, when a bit of too-cold air finds its way in. “You don't, do you?” 

“Makes me tired. Has to do with my mutation.” He shrugs. “Mine's a bit complicated at the biological level. I'm not human, not really, but I'm obviously not a frog. I'm cold-blooded, but parts of me are still mammalian.”

“Mammalian,” Kurt repeats, unsure of the word. 

“Warm-blooded, normally got fur and a spine?” Mortimer says, and Kurt nods, even though he's still a little unclear. His education in the sciences really is lacking.

“In any case,” Mortimer continues, “If I get too cold, for too long, my reactions get slower. I have to keep moving, or I'll go into a kind of dormancy.” Again, Kurt frowns. That word sounds familiar, but he can't quite put it in context. Mortimer again correctly reads it, and elaborates. “It's like I'm going to sleep, but I can't wake up. Not until I get warmed up again.” 

“Is that safe?” Kurt asks, worried. Mortimer shrugs though.

“I don't know.” He says. “It's never gone on long enough that I have to worry about it.” He sits down beside Kurt on the bench, his skin cold. Kurt swings his legs up over Mortimer's thighs, and curls into him, resting his head on Mortimer's shoulder. “Are you aware that you're warmer than most people?”

“You are too cold, I am too warm.” Kurt says. “We average out to normal, yes?” 

“We're normal now.” Mortimer says. 

“Forgive me, I have only ever seen one other person who is blue. I do not think your definition of normal is the same as the rest of the world's.” Kurt says.

“Who else is blue?” Mortimer asks, his hand cupping the back of Kurt's head. 

“Dr. McCoy, at the Institute.” Kurt answers. “He does not like me.”

“Why do you say that?” 

Kurt frowns, and tries to explain.

“My friend, Rogue, and I. He looks at us strangely. Very strangely. I do not like it.” 

“Rogue is...?” Mortimer trails off.

“She is a mutant, of course. Still a student. Her power is absorption, but the poor girl cannot control it.” Kurt sighs in sympathy. “She cannot have any contact with other people, or she hurts them.”

“So what, she takes their power?” Mortimer asks.

“No, not just that. She takes their memories, their personality traits, even their skills, if she gets enough from them. It's very frightening for her. She still hears the people she absorbs for months. She has nightmares from it.” Kurt's heart aches in sympathy. 

“That's a bad hand to draw.” Mortimer says. “Nothing can be done?”

“Professor Xavier, he thinks if something is done, it will just make it worse for her in the long run. She says she has to gain control on her own.” Kurt thinks it's all terribly much to ask of someone so young, so afraid. 

“And Dr. McCoy, he looks at both of you in a way you don't like?”

“I can't explain it.” Kurt says. 

“Listen, Kurt, have you been talking about me at that place?” 

Kurt squirms uncomfortably, and Mortimer must feel it. He hooks a finger under Kurt's chin, and lifts his head so they can look at each other. 

“Something wrong?” He asks.

“I do not want you to think that I am ashamed. It is only, I am very different looking, and many of the students are already very wary of me. Not only that, there are many problems there right now. There was a death, and another loss.” He sighs, not sure how to put things. 

“You don't need any other complications.” Mortimer says, and Kurt winces, looks away. “Love, I don't mind. I'd prefer you to not talk about me at all, actually. No offense, but I don't like the idea of Xavier knowing about me.”

“Why not?” Kurt asks.

“Because I don't like some of the things I've heard, is all.” Mortimer says. “It's complicated. It's all complicated.”

“I am beginning to see that.” Kurt agrees, curling tighter into Mortimer. Everywhere he touches is warming under his skin, even the fingers Mortimer has on the back of his neck. He wants to warm him all up, keep him safe from the dangerous cold. “In the circus, it was simple. Mutants, humans. That is it. Out here, there are so many different sides, so many different opinions. I am not sure how I feel about any of it.” 

“Maybe it was better your way.” Mortimer says. “I grew up knowing it was never going to be simple. That I was always going to be an outsider. At least you had somewhere to belong.” 

“Is that how you feel?” Kurt asks. “That you are alone?” 

“Not so much anymore.” Mortimer says. “You've seen who I know, where I go. I'm always around other mutants. Sometimes though,” He pauses. “Sometimes I think it's still not enough. People know what I am. I never try to hide. Feels like every day, I get some tosser treating me like I should be in a cage. I'm twenty-seven, and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of humans.”

“What do you propose then?” Kurt asks. “That we exile ourselves to some island with a rule of 'mutants only'?” Kurt almost laughs, but Mortimer has a strange look on his face. It fades quickly though. “Do you really think that's a good idea? Wouldn't people be more afraid of us if we isolate ourselves?” 

“I don't know.” Mortimer replies. “You're probably right. I know that. But it doesn't make it any easier.” He frowns. “Don't you go to any kind of service? It's Sunday.” 

“There's nowhere I am welcome.” Kurt says, feeling a pang at the thought. “I searched, but I find I push the comfort levels of even those who are open-minded about mutants. I'm too strange.” 

“You're not.” Mortimer insists. “Strange, I mean. Don't let people tell you that.” 

“Why not?” Kurt asks. “It's true.” 

“No, it's not.” Mortimer says, more firmly. Kurt tips his head at him, then leans forward, to kiss him. Mortimer turns his head to accommodate him, and for a moment, that is all they do. Even Mortimer's lips are cold under his, and Kurt cups his face, his cheeks like ice under Kurt's hands. 

“You are so cold.” Kurt says, definitely worried now. 

“Not where you're touching me.” Mortimer says, softly. “It's how being cold-blooded works. I'm called an ectotherm, means I use what's around me to keep myself at a good temperature. Like you,” He says, his cold fingers finding their way under Kurt's blanket, under another pilfered shirt, and against his skin. Kurt almost recoils, he's so cold, but quickly, the hand warms, until it feels normal. “You're warm.” 

“Are you using me for heat?” Kurt asks, grinning. 

“You're the only reason I can stay out here, without moving.” Mortimer says. “You're like a furnace.” 

“Should we go inside?” Kurt asks, and Mortimer nods. 

Kurt looks behind them, through the glass, at the couch, then holds on tight to Mortimer. When he opens his eyes, they're safely on the couch, in the warm. 

“That's the third time you've moved me.” Mortimer says. “Thought I was too heavy?”

“Short distances, I am calm, and we are always touching.” Kurt says. “The more I know a person, their body, the easier it becomes for me to move them. But I will never be able to move you very far, or very often.” 

“You know my body pretty well by now, I'd think,” Mortimer muses, with a grin that's just this side of lecherous. “Want to get to know it a little more?” 

“No,” Kurt says, pulling away. “I want breakfast.” 

“We can get breakfast,” Mortimer says, tugging Kurt back. “We can get it after. Come on,” He has a good hold on Kurt, because he's strong, so much stronger than he looks, just like Kurt, “I'm still cold.” 

“No,” Kurt says, slipping away. Mortimer lets him, but pursues, and Kurt laughs, as Mortimer pushes him up against the wall, holds his weight up easily. Kurt puts his feet against Mortimer's hips, and pushes him back just enough he has more freedom of movement, then tumbles over Mortimer's shoulder, landing on all fours on the rug. 

Again though, Mortimer catches him, pins him to the floor, and the world goes dark as Mortimer covers his eyes with one hand, taking away his teleportation. 

“I have neighbors, love,” He lectures Kurt, but Kurt can hear the grin. “And they're not going to like all this noise on a Sunday morning.” 

“I am very sorry,” Kurt says, trying to appear contrite. “Very, very sorry,” 

“Yeah?” Mortimer asks, just as someone starts pounding on the door. Mortimer winces and gets off of him, to Kurt's disappointment. 

He hears Mortimer turn the locks and open the door.

“So, you _are_ back.” A woman's voice says, in a rather unwelcoming tone. “Why they let your kind in this building, I suppose can only be attributed to some liberal garbage about equality.”

“Or,” Mortimer says conversationally. “I pay rent. Also a strong possibility.” 

Kurt listens cautiously, teleporting from the living room to the kitchen, so that he's closer to the front door. Mortimer sees him, but gives no indication of it. Kurt needs to stay out of sight then. 

“So, where have you been for the past four months?” The bossy voice demands, and Mortimer raises his eyebrows. 

“Were you concerned about me?” He asks, sounding some mix of confused and wary. 

“Keep the noise down.” The voice hisses, and Mortimer agrees, shutting the door rather impolitely. He shakes his head, and walks past Kurt, to the kettle hanging over the stove. He fills it with water, dumps it out, then fills again and puts it on a burner. 

“Who was that?” Kurt asks.

“My neighbor. Complete madwoman. Hates mutants, hates gays, but when this fucker passing out Friends of Humanity pamphlets wouldn't get away from the front entrance, she chased him off with a broom.” Kurt knows his face must show his confusion, and Mortimer laughs. “Like, I said, she's barking.”

“'Barking'?” Kurt asks, and Mortimer grimaces.

“Right, 'barking', short for 'barking mad'.” He uses loose-leaf tea, Kurt sees. “Your English is good, love. Better than my German. I keep forgetting.” 

“Your German is very good.” Kurt says, pushing himself up so that he sits on the counter. “It makes me think you've spent more time in Germany than you say. I would guess Berlin.” 

“You would guess right.” Mortimer says, as the kettle whistles. He pours the water over the tea leaves and replaces the kettle on the burner. “Speaking German, it makes me useful for those kinds of trips. Helps me blend in a little better.”

“And speaking French?” Kurt asks slyly. Mortimer smirks, taking a drink of his tea. “All your notes, the ones you leave lying on the floor, they are all in French. Why?” 

“Not a lot of people in the United States speak French. And engineers are notoriously paranoid.” Mortimer smiles at him, puts his tea down, and cages Kurt in on the counter. His newest tattoo flexes as he shifts, and Kurt touches it with his tail. “I just don't want anyone knowing what I'm working on. Especially if it's something I scribbled down at two am that turns out to defy the laws of physics. That's just embarrassing.” 

“I defy the laws of physics, according to you.” Kurt reminds him. 

“No, you defy currently held conventions about instantaneous travel.” Mortimer says, and Kurt frowns, trying to remember what 'instantaneous' translates to in German. 'Instant', he thinks, means immediate, so 'instantaneous' must mean the same thing? “However, there are a few theories on how you do it. Want to hear them?”

“I doubt I would understand them.” Kurt replies, sighing. “You keep using words I've never heard before, and then I have to work out what the word means, and by the time I do that, I have no idea what you are saying.” 

“Hm.” Mortimer says. “How are you teaching the kids, if you barely know any of this?”

“I teach German.” Kurt says, winding his arms around Mortimer's neck. “And some maths. Algebra. As far as I got before I reached the end of my schooling.” He grins, biting his lip a little, and Mortimer raises an eyebrow, like he knows what Kurt is after. “Of course, you are very good at maths, and science.”

“Oh, I see,” Mortimer says. “You want me to tutor you.” He leans in close, and Kurt can smell the tea on his breath, better than the cigarettes. “Love, you should know, I'm required to have supervision whenever I do my time as a 'guest lecturer', also known as having my arm twisted. And when I say supervision, I mean, they don't trust me not to lose my temper with students anymore.” 

“But I don't irritate you.” Kurt reasons, refusing to take 'no' for an answer. Mortimer hasn't really said 'no', anyway, not yet. “And if I do, I know how to make you less irritated.” 

“That you do.” Mortimer says, his eyes sliding down Kurt appreciatively. 

“So, you could teach me,” Kurt says, and Mortimer sighs. 

“I could try.” Mortimer agrees, and gets a kiss for that, because Kurt's pleased with the idea of learning, of maybe being able to teach a higher-level, take on more responsibilities. Maybe be able to do things other than just be an acrobat. 

“Thank you.” Kurt says. 

“Anytime you start to irritate me, I get sex.” Mortimer conditions, and Kurt mock-frowns at him. 

“If you want to negotiate, we can.” Kurt says generously. “Like the cigarettes.” 

“Oh, I've been waiting for this one.” Mortimer says, pushing off from the counter to go back to his tea. “What do you want then?” 

“When we're together, no smoking while we're kissing.” Kurt says, and Mortimer sighs, but nods. “And that's it.” 

“What, really?” Kurt shrugs. He doesn't mind the smell, and he thinks Mortimer must have a lot of stress in his line of work. It's probably why he smokes, to keep calm. Kurt doesn't want to deny him a habit he might need, and more than that, it's not really his place. “Pet, I see this being a beautiful relationship.” 

Kurt smiles at him, so happy in this moment. Right here, he has something he's never had before, not with either of the relationships he'd had in the past. Mortimer honestly doesn't care about Kurt's odd mutation, even likes it, finds it attractive. 

And what they talked about the night before, being so similar, that's a factor too. He doesn't have to explain himself with Mortimer. The man just accepts everything about Kurt with a glance, a nod. It makes him want to curl into the other man, kiss away every fear and worry that's plaguing him. 

“I won't be able to see you much during the week.” Kurt says. “Classes, other responsibilities. You live too far away to be able to make the trip every day. But the weekends,” 

“You could stay here.” Mortimer says. “Could stay with me all weekend, every weekend.” 

“And what would I do with you, every weekend, all weekend?” Kurt teases. Mortimer smirks, tilting his head, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that makes his heart pound. 

“Tutoring.” Mortimer says. 

“In what subjects?” 

“Lots of them.” Mortimer says, and Kurt smiles, pulls him back in for another kiss.

Later, when they have coffee and breakfast from a cafe nearby, some pastry he couldn't pronounce for himself, and two oranges for Mortimer, they take a walk in the woods behind the flat, deserted in the cold and softly falling snow. 

“So, what is snow, really?” Kurt asks, studying the individual flakes that are catching on his jacket. 

“Do I look like I studied meteorology?” Mortimer asks, and Kurt frowns. “That's the science of weather.”

“Me-teor-olo-gy,” Kurt says, sounding it out. “So you don't know?”

“Not a clue.” Mortimer replies. 

“So,” Kurt separates from him, and starts walking backwards in the snow, the cold not bothering the strong, thick skin on his feet. “Why did you choose to be an engineer?” 

Mortimer's finished his coffee, and is peeling one of the small oranges, frowning while he appears to mull over Kurt's question. 

“When I was a kid, I liked things like cars, motorbikes, anything with an engine, really. My dad, he thought I was real clever. So he used to find stuff for me, old cars, tractors, things that didn't work anymore, and then he'd find the manuals for me. Dad, he doesn't get that kind of thing, but he gave me everything I needed to learn. By the time I was fifteen, I could figure out any engine.” He pops a piece of orange in his mouth, chews, then eats another, as Kurt turns back, keeps pace with him. 

Kurt listens, curious. When he was that age, he couldn't remember being very interested in anything like that. All he'd wanted to do was fly. 

“So why not be a mechanic?” Kurt asks.

Mortimer laughs.

“Drove my mum crazy, but the thing is, ever since I started school, maths just made sense to me, even when nothing else did. And physics, Christ, that was love at first sight. I love physics, chemistry. By the time I was seventeen, I could make fifteen different bombs just from the stuff my mum kept under the sink.” 

“Why would you want to make bombs?” Kurt asks, crossing his arms so he can tuck his hands into his elbows. 

“Because I was seventeen.” Mortimer says, with a smile. “So what about you? What started the art?” 

“In the circus, no one is educated, really, not like you.” Kurt says, and Mortimer gives a huff of laughter. “You are very educated, don't pretend otherwise.” Mortimer just eats some more of his orange, leaving the peel behind in the snow. “Anyway, education ends where the knowledge ends. But art, many people in the circus know art. I was surrounded by it. I grew up loving it. But what I loved the most was always tattooing.” 

“Why?”

“Because people would put all these beautiful colors in their skin, like they were trying to look like me.” He admits, and he feels rather than sees Mortimer's dark eyes on him. “I wanted to be able to create it, make people's skin beautiful. I possessed the talent for drawing, or so my aunt said, and she made me better, taught me all the history of it, the different styles. I started off tattooing on meat, of course, like everyone does, and I was actually almost done with my apprenticeship when I had to leave.” 

“You should finish it with Liam.” He says, starting on the second orange. “He's good, and the apprentices he's had seemed to like him alright.” He frowns in thought. “Except Tyler. But that was mostly because he hated me and that was when I was sleeping on a couch in the shop, so he had to deal with me every day.”

“Why did he hate you?” 

“You didn't know me at twenty-one, love. I was angry, and I didn't know how to direct it. Lashed out at people all the time, lashed out at Liam, mostly.” He sighs. “And Liam didn't deserve that. When we split up, it was because Liam couldn't take it anymore. I disappeared all the time, I wouldn't tell him things, and I wouldn't stop fighting, even after I got four ribs kicked in and my shoulder popped out.” 

Kurt looks at him, wondering why Mortimer is telling him this.

“You think I won't want to be with you, the more I get to know you.” Kurt hazards, and Mortimer smirks. 

“Most don't.” Mortimer says, letting the last bit of orange peel fall to the ground. 

Kurt slips a hand through Mortimer's arm, and presses his forehead to Mortimer's shoulder for a second. 

“I like you.” Kurt says, and Mortimer huffs. “I do.” Mortimer doesn't look like he believes him. “The fighting, do you still do that?” 

“When I need some quick, mostly legal cash. Can't really get a match anymore though. Everyone knows me, knows what I can do, and no human will risk it. No mutant either, seems like. That's the problem when you win too much.” He smirks. “And I won. All the time.” 

“Except when you got four ribs kicked in and your shoulder popped out.” Kurt taunts, but a dark look passes over Mortimer's face. Kurt looks away, but keeps his arm in Mortimer's. “Oh.” He says, for lack of anything else.

“I didn't kill him, love. But he looked a lot worse by the end of that one.” Mortimer looks distinctly uncomfortable now, and Kurt's sorry for possibly ruining his good mood. “Look, love, I'm not going to pretend I'm a nice person. I'm really not, alright? I've done a lot of things you wouldn't like.”

“You're nice to me.” Kurt says. “And I doubt you have done anything unforgivable. God forgives all.” 

“So says you. You're Catholic. You think if I confess and take my medicine it'll be alright. Not everyone subscribes to that.” 

“You don't believe in anything, do you?” Kurt asks, gently, so as not to sound accusatory. “You're an atheist.” 

“I am.” Mortimer says, not meeting Kurt's eyes. “Sorry.” 

“I don't mind.” Kurt replies, and Mortimer laughs, his left hand going into his pocket. Kurt decides to stall the inevitable cigarette by stopping and wrapping his arms around Mortimer's neck, pulling him down for a kiss. He tastes like oranges and coffee, and Kurt seeks out another as Mortimer's hand presses into the nape of his neck. 

“What are you up to then?” He asks, sounding amused. 

“Smoking is bad for you.” Kurt lectures, and Mortimer laughs again, pressing his forehead to Kurt's. 

“Christ, I like you.” He says. 

“You could take the Lord's name in vain a little less as well.” Kurt says, frowning, and Mortimer really laughs, kissing Kurt again, over and over until he doesn't have any breath left to speak. 

 

-

Mortimer works quietly, biting his lip as he tries to think. He knows what he needs to do, or at least has a good idea. A projection, one with several points, so that Kurt's entire form is covered. He would have to tuck his tail in, and be careful with his hands. 

He's got the initial idea down, he thinks. He'd have to code in the colouring too. German, that means Kurt should be white, to avoid any questioning. His eyes are golden, and Mortimer doesn't feel inclined to hide them. Brown is the closest he can think of, maybe hazel. Hazel is too complicated to program though, for him. 

He leaves Kurt's hair alone. 

On his laptop, the image of Kurt changes, his program automatically correcting the skin tone for correct variances, the eyes showing the depth of colour they should. 

It's perfect, when he's done. If he can get everything right, no one will be able to tell from a look what Kurt really is. 

He saves everything, and closes the program down, hidden away in one of the many secret folders on his flash drive.

The actual projector sits in front of him, the pieces laid out. He'd had what he needed. This isn't the first time he's tinkered around with the idea of making something like this, but he'd never really been serious about it before.

The completed exoskeleton sits on its stand, looking rather innocent powered down. But further underground, there's a wave of destruction in one of the sub-basements, from where the Boss had tried it out. 

He'd been pleased. Mortimer likes when he manages to please him. 

He keeps working, until most of the item is assembled. He's chosen to disguise it as a watch, figuring that's something a man can wear every day and not draw any attention to it. 

He just needs to finish the program and download it into the projector, then finish the protective casing and controls. He won't see Kurt again until later in the week, so he has plenty of time to work out the bugs in the system. He doesn't want there to be any accidents. 

“What'cha doing?” Domino asks, draping herself over his shoulders, one hand idly tapping his stomach. 

“Get off.” He orders, putting down his tools.

“I'm bored.” She says, her chin digging into his shoulder a little. “Entertain me.”

“Go to hell.” Mortimer tells her, annoyed. He carefully closes the back of the watch and puts it all away in a small case. The flash drive is on a chain around his neck, safe and sound from Domino and her nosiness. 

“Froggie, come on, play with Auntie Domino,”

“If you call me that one more time, all the firing pins in your guns are going to be at the bottom of the lake.” He says, pointing at her warningly. “And you're not my aunt, so stop it with that, you complete nutter.” 

“That's not very nice.” She says, poking him, as she turns her face down into his shoulder. Then she sniffs. “That's odd.”

“What is?” 

“From this angle, it looks like someone bit your neck.” He hears the sound of his upcoming torment like a charge of Valkyries, as she smirks beside him. “Does my little Toad's boyfriend have fangs?” 

“Go on then.” He says, feeling a sulk coming on. “I've got work to do, and so do you.” 

“That could be true.” She says. “Not likely though.” She gets off of him, and wanders over to the exoskeleton, looking it up and down. “So, what's this for then?” 

“The Boss.” Mortimer answers. “He's getting older, you know. He's not as strong as he was. This compensates.” 

“Toad, I knew the Boss, as you so fondly call him, when he was still squabbling with Emma Frost while Azazel and Riptide burned us a path to greatness. I know exactly how much older he's gotten.” She sighs fondly. “Those were good days, you know.”

“Sorry, but the more distance between Frost and me, the happier I am.” He replies, repressing a shudder at the thought of the cold woman in white. “Same goes for that psychopath.” He's really having a hard time reconciling Azazel and Kurt as being related, the more he gets to know Kurt. 

“Don't call Azazel a psychopath.” Domino says, more than a little defensively. “He's a good man. And Emma is wonderful.” 

“In case you forgot Domino, the first time I met Emma Frost, she went rifling around in my mind like it was a damned playground.” He really does shudder, just a little, remembering the way it had felt, her icy fingers in his brain, looking at all his memories, his mum and dad, his tormenters, his boyfriends, everything that had ever happened to him. 

“Emma just wanted to make sure you were on the up and up.” Domino replied, turning to him. “You know how she is.” 

“I don't like telepaths.” Mortimer says. “It's my head, it's no one else's business.”

“Emma's been in my head since I was ten.” She says in reply, smiling lazily. “I like her there.”

Domino makes everything look lazy, really, even though Mortimer knows almost everything she shows is calculated. He likes Domino, has always gotten on with her, but he doesn't exactly disagree with SHIELD's assessment. He doesn't know much about psychology, but the kind of childhood she had doesn't make for a healthy adult. 

“Yeah, well, I don't.” He says, and she keeps smiling.

“You don't like Emma or Azazel, do you?”

“You know I don't.” He answers, fiddling with his goggles. He tips his chair back, goggles still in hand. “Frost relies on her telepathy too much, and she's not exactly polite about it. Azazel just scares the fuck out of me.” 

Not like Kurt, he thinks. Kurt is as gentle as Azazel is violent. 

He really shouldn't be thinking about Kurt too much here. He's a distraction. 

“SHIELD knows about your parents, you know.” 

He almost falls out of his chair. It's only due to quick reflexes that he gets all four legs on the floor again, and once he's there, he leans forward, elbows on knees, turning his goggles over and over. 

“How?” He asks, shocked.

“They got a genetic sample from you, in Singapore. You bled on something, apparently.” 

He almost touches his forearm in reflex, but refrains. It had been a bullet, just a graze, but it had hurt like hell. It had to have been that wound, it had bled so freely before he'd found something to wrap it up. 

“They can get that from my blood?” He asks. He doesn't know enough about that kind of thing to understand how they could tell something like that. 

“Apparently there's a difference in the markers of the DNA, between a mutant born of humans and one of other mutants.” Domino explains, and he grimaces, twisting his goggles in his fingers. “And you, Toad, you have two human parents.” She says it in an almost accusatory way, and he frowns at her. 

“So?” He asks, his hackles raising. “Does that affect your opinion of me, or something?” 

“I've always wondered about you, you know. All that rage in your little black heart,” She twirls her finger in the air, miming circling his heart. “I thought maybe there was something you were hiding, and there it is. Poor little Toad, black eyes and acid skin and that tongue, and I bet you come from two perfectly normal people. Do you?” 

He stands, and walks over, until there's very little space between them. They're of a height, but he's got at least three stone on her, and it's all muscle. And maybe he hated his eyes as a child, but he knows they've done him more than a few favors as an adult. They frighten people, the blackness of them. 

They're frightening her.

“Let's get one thing very clear here,” He says. “You don't talk about my parents. Understood?” 

“You love your mummy, Toad?” She asks, mocking his accent. 

“Shut it.” He warns.

“I always wondered about that French. You write in it, and you speak it so easily.” He feels his heart stop, his left hand curling into a fist around his goggles. “I bet one of them is French.” 

“Are you looking to make trouble here?” He asks, because this is taunting beyond her usual. 

“Maybe I just want to know more about you.” She says, making an innocent face. “We've known each other a decade now, and I barely know you. How does that happen?” 

She's fishing, and he knows it. 

“Why don't you just ask me what you want to know?” He asks, and she scowls. 

“Did anyone ever tell you that you're a little paranoid?” She asks. 

“It's only paranoia if it's not true.” He says, and she scoffs, looks away. She's being evasive. “You got some kind of issue with me now? Something I should know about?”

“Look,” She says, crossing her arms. “Here's the thing, Toad. SHIELD is breathing down our neck, and I don't want to end up in one of their accommodations, _capiche_? Everyone needs to be on their game, and I don't want to find out that maybe you've been playing both sides of the fence when it comes down to it.”

“You can't be serious,” He says, surprised, more than anything else. “You think I'd work for SHIELD?”

“I think you have two human parents you obviously care about, and you've been disappearing quite a bit here lately. I've barely seen you since I got back, you've been down in the town so much.” She accuses. “You've never been like this before, not even when you were sleeping with someone.” 

“I don't believe this,” He says, shaking his head. “Not that it's any of your business, but I've been seeing someone. Actually seeing someone.”

“Who?” She asks, her tone and body language aggressive.

“Mind your own, that's who,” He says, defensive. 

“Is he a mutant?”

“Of course he is.” 

“Then why isn't he here? Fighting the war?” She demands, and he scowls, putting space between them.

“Because he's not like that.” He says, feeling protective. “He's peaceful. Good.”

“Then what are you doing with him?” She asks, and he rakes his free hand through his hair, frustrated. “He's not like us. Why would you want to be with him?” 

“It's none of your fucking business.” He spits, walking back to his workbench, his papers, the neatly written French of his notes staring up at him. “What I do when I'm not here has fuck all to do with you, or the Brotherhood. I'm loyal, you know that.” He says, because it's true. It always has been. “But I need this, alright? He makes me calm.” 

“Since when did you need to be calmed down?” She asks, sneering.

“Since the place.” He grinds out, every word like pulling teeth. “Where they held me.” 

She goes quiet. 

“Lykos put me on medication. Didn't help.” He wants a cigarette bad, feels it like an itch he can't reach. “Spending time with him, it does.” 

When he's with Kurt, he feels like himself again, for the first time since before the Liberty Island incident. The stress and anxiety that makes him sick, it's all gone with Kurt. 

“Speaking of, Lykos said he wants to see you again. He wants a blood sample. And he says you better have been taking your medicine.” 

Mortimer sneers and takes out a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling deeply. The nicotine eases the tension in his back, stops his hands from shaking. He's never going to be able to quit at this rate. 

“I really hope you know what you're doing.” She says, and he raises his eyebrows at her. “Getting involved with someone like this. I mean, we're on the brink of war. And you're letting yourself get distracted by this.” 

“I'm not distracted.” He refutes. 

“We need you.” She says imploringly. “You build everything for us. You protect our bases. You keep up with SHIELD's movements. We can't lose you.” 

“You're not,” He insists, not entirely sure if he's lying or not. He still believes in what they're doing, still believes in this cause, in their leader. 

But he's tired.

“I'm not leaving you.” He says again, trying to mean it. 

Domino believes him, he thinks. But now that the idea is planted, it's growing, the possibility of a different life. The facility has changed him, he has to finally admit, as he goes over the system, up in his loft. They damaged him in a way he can't pin down, can't heal. He wonders if this is how Magneto felt, when he came out of the camps. Irrevocably changed, for better or for worse. 

He wasn't held nearly as long, but he doesn't think torture has a specific time frame before it breaks you. He's not broken, he thinks. He's too angry to be broken. But they left their scars on him, and they can't be erased. 

Now SHIELD knows more about him than he'd like. That scares him. He doesn't want his parents to know what he's been up to, doesn't want them to ever be disappointed in him like they will be. And he doesn't want SHIELD breaking down their door, questioning them, detaining them even. His dad's heart isn't so good anymore, and the shock might hurt him. 

Christ, he's in so deep he can't ever get out. He's never going to be able to keep everyone safe. Liam expects him to keep their friends out of danger, his parents expect him to be a good son, the Brotherhood expects him to keep everyone alive, and now he's got to protect Kurt from both the Brotherhood and SHIELD. He's killing himself with all of this. 

But he can't give any of them up. 

He can't give Kurt up. He wants him too much. He just wants one thing that's all his own, one person who isn't expecting the world from him. Kurt just likes him, wants to be with him. Can't he have that? Just this once? 

“Toad.” Mystique is there, sitting beside him. His music had been loud enough to cover the noise of her climbing the ladder and sitting beside him. “What are you doing up here?”

“What's it look like?” He asks, taking a drag of his almost forgotten cigarette. 

She hands him a cup of tea and he stares at it suspiciously. 

“What's in this?” He asks, taking it and sniffing it. It's chai, with milk, like he likes, but if he concentrates, he can smell the vaguely chemical scent of whatever she's added. 

“Vitamins.” She says. “Specifically B12, iron, and calcium.” 

“That's it?” He asks.

“Just drink it, you ungrateful ass.” She says, and he does as he's told. “Are you well enough to spar? I want to train with someone other than Sabretooth.”

“You know I'm not.” He answers, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray. “I'm well enough to fight if I need too, and take care of the place, but I'm too tired to give you a real workout.” 

“Maybe Sauron is right.” She says. “Maybe you need a holiday.” She says it mockingly enough that he makes a face at her. “Your face will stick like that, you overgrown child.” 

“Bite me.” He answers, wrapping both his hands around the mug. His fingers are cold. 

They're quiet for a moment.

“Things are getting loud out there, aren't they?” She asks, in a strange tone that he doesn't want to identify as fear. If Mystique is afraid, then it really is bad, and he's not ready for that yet.

He taps the screen of his tablet, bringing up windows on the main monitor, so she can see the chatter he's been picking up.

Friends of Humanity's newest video has hundreds of thousands of likes, and the comment section is full of speciest rants from the unwashed masses. Facebook isn't a better story, with hate groups surging in popularity since the attack on the whole world that Stryker orchestrated, but it's not just humans-only. Mutant rights groups have swelled in ranks too, and their comments are just as violent, just as angry. 

“What is this?” She asks, in that same tone, and he sighs.

“Lines being drawn in the sand.” He answers, bringing up more. “This isn't going to die down this time.” He says quietly, the sight of it all forcing itself into his mind. “It's not good. Syria is executing mutants. So is Iran. Iraq and Afghanistan are so unstable, I have no bloody clue what's happening there. Egypt is registering and detaining all mutants. Israel is conscripting them into the military, in life-contracts, or they get imprisoned.” 

Mystique's face doesn't change, as he slides the screen away from Africa, to Asia. 

“India is losing their mind. Some people think we're gods in human form, or something. Others don't agree. Their government isn't strong enough to do anything about it one way or the other. They're on the verge of a civil war.” He moves up on the map to China. “China claims they have no mutants. You can guess what's happening. Japan is registering theirs, but I'm not picking up anything else.”

“What about Europe?” She asks.

“Same as ever. A new registration bill got before the EU, and France walked out. They said they'll sooner leave the EU before they force their citizens to do something so barbaric.” He smiles. “And that's me cleaning up the language a bit.” He points to the Scandinavian countries. “Nothing out of there so far, one way or the other.”

“And Russia?”

“They're taking a leaf out of Israel's book. Registration and conscription. No choice.” The thought makes him sick. Forcing mutants into the military of a government that treats them like cattle is beyond wrong. 

He waits, but she doesn't ask.

“They're not registering in England.” He says at last, and he sees her shoulders relax. “Even if they did, they won't find her. I'll put out a blackout on her if they try.” 

“Toad,” She says.

“I owe you more than a few favors.” He says. “You trained me. You didn't have to do that.”

“Weak links get everyone killed.” She says, and he chuckles. 

“Right.” He replies, lets her hold on to that, even as she runs her hand through his hair. “Like it?”

“You look like an idiot.” She says. “Who has a mohawk at your age?”

“It's not even a proper one, not really.” He says. “Almost a faux-hawk.” She rolls her eyes at him, and he laughs, lets her keep playing with it. Her affections and care are rare, and if she's feeling this way, there must be a reason. 

He and Kurt are the same age, he realizes, for the first time. 

He can't help but wonder, now.

“It's a good thing you don't like women.” She says. “You'd be a terrible parent. The kind that gives them whatever they want.” 

“Gay couples can adopt.” He replies, grinning, and she frowns. 

“Like anyone would give a child to a gay, mutant couple.” She says, and he laughs, because she's right. Not like he needs kids anyway. He's already got too much to do. He doesn't need anyone else depending on him. 

“Hey,” They both turn to see Pyro pulling himself into the loft, his bad arm held to his chest in a sling. “What are you guys doing?” 

“Working.” Mortimer answers, as the kid sits beside him. “Want to help?”

“Sure.” The kid says, adjusting his legs. “The system?”

“Mm-hm,” Mortimer says, bringing everything up. 

The kid listens attentively as Mortimer shows him exactly what he's doing, and copies him well enough, even if Mortimer has to correct his work two or three times. Pyro wants to learn, wants approval, and Mortimer's okay with giving him some, as long as he earns it. He's not so bad, won't be at all, once all the arrogance is knocked out of him.

He refuses to admit that the kid sort of reminds him of himself at that age. He's pretty sure the kid's half-crazy, and more than a little co-dependent, but he's impressed by Mortimer, and eager to please. He's had to deal with worse. At least the kid is manageable.

“Shit,” Pyro swears suddenly, bending over. 

“You have to take the medicine when it says.” Mortimer says calmly, touching his shoulder. “You're not proving anything by not taking it.”

Mystique makes a noise that could be described as a snort by a less charitable sort of man.

“Nobody asked you.” He says, and he almost feels her glare burn into the back of his neck. 

He gets his work done, and takes a walk, sometime around four am, out into the woods. Once he's out far enough, a few kilometers, down somewhere by the water, he takes out his mobile and calls his mum. 

“Hello, my sweet,” She answers, and the feeling he gets in his chest is embarrassing. He's a grown man, for Christ's sake, but she's his mum, the only one he'll ever have. “Isn't it rather early for you?”

“Haven't slept.” He answers, and he hears her disapproval in her silence. “Come off it Mum, I've been busy, is all.”

“Is that all?” She asks, and he sighs. “Are you alright?” 

Only his mum would know to ask.

“ _I might have made a mistake,_ ” He says, switching over to French. “ _A big one._ ” 

“ _What kind of mistake?_ ” She asks, in French as well, hers more natural, less learned. “ _Is something wrong? I've been seeing things on the television, and then I did not hear from you for those months. I worried maybe something had happened to you over there in America._ ”

“It's nothing, Mum.” He says, suddenly feeling stupid. “Nothing like that.” He lies, and feels like a bastard for it. He's a man, he shouldn't lie to his mother. “I'm just overreacting. Been stressful at work, and all.” 

“Are you sure?” She asks, and he hears the doubt. His mother knows him too well.

“No.” He answers, with a huff. “Look, Mum, has anyone been bothering you or Dad?” He asks. “Anyone you maybe didn't like the look of.”

There's silence, and he feels his stomach twist in agony as he waits.

“Are you in trouble again?” She asks, in the solemn way of hers that always makes him think he's a disappointment to her in ways he can never fix. “Like you were before?”

She means the cage fighting. She means when some blokes got it into their heads that they shouldn't have gotten their arses handed to them by some titchy little Scot with green hair. They'd thought they'd just drop by his house, have a chat with him. 

They could have hurt his mum or dad, and it would have been his fault. That never fails to haunt him in the dead of the night, when he lies awake, thinking of everything he's managed to fuck up in his life, everything he's ever done wrong. 

It's the real reason he had to stop, at least over there. How can he tell Kurt that though, that he nearly got his family hurt due to his own arrogance and stupidity? What kind of man does that make him? 

“No.” He says. “No, it's not like that. This is something else.” 

“Is this because of who you are?” She asks, and he sighs. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it would be.” He hears her sigh, can almost see the expression on her face, the steely resolve that's probably there, as she digests this. 

“And if someone is asking, have I seen you?”

“No.” He says. “You haven't seen me, you don't talk to me, alright? The less they think you know me, the safer you'll be, you and Dad both.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Even if they say they're my friend or that they work with me. No one.” He can't believe he just said it out loud, the fear that's been growing in his stomach ever since Domino questioned him, the doubt he's having towards the rest of the Brotherhood. 

But these are his parents. He won't take any chances.

“Mortimer, what is happening?” His mother asks, as he sits down, back to a tree, legs drawn up. 

“There's a lot of things going on here.” He says. “Things I'm scared to tell you. Things with mutants.”

“I've seen the news.” She says. “And we were hit by the Incident too.” 

The Incident.

God, that terrifies him to think about. He'd been in agony on the ground, in his cell of that lab, feeling like his brain was going to burst right out of his skull. But then it had been gone, and his guards had been the ones screaming. He'd been too weak and sick to even think about escaping as they hit their knees, but it hadn't been long after that he'd been rescued anyway.

“Are you sure you're okay?” He asks, not for the first time. “You both went to that doctor friend of mine, right? You both got all the tests?” A school friend, Tansy Matthews, had ended up becoming a neurologist, and she'd done him a favor by checking on them both for him, making sure there were no permanent effects.

“Yes, my sweet, we're both fine. We were both just fine, like everyone else in the village.” 

“Okay.” He says. “Okay.” He breathes out, his left hand tapping the phone. “I don't know what's happening. I really don't. But I know there are people looking for me who do not have my best intentions at heart. So you need to be careful, alright?”

“I'm not an invalid.” His mother says. “Neither is your father. We can handle ourselves.” 

“Alright.” He agrees, still feeling the need to get on the first plane home and check. It's a stupid thought. SHIELD doesn't know his real name, they don't know who his parents are. And they have no jurisdiction over Scotland anyway. 

“What else is it?” She asks, and he cringes. His mother knows him too well. 

“It's stupid.” He says. “Not something you need to worry about.”

“And what's something's name then?” She asks, and he laughs, into his wrist so it's not too loud. “I gave birth to you, my sweet, and raised you. Don't try to lie to me.” How does he tell her that he lies to her all the time? Sometimes, he wonders if she knows. 

“It's Kurt.” He says. “His name is Kurt. Just started seeing him.”

“Just started seeing him and already telling me about him. He must be something special.” 

“Yeah.” Mortimer admits, aloud for the first time. “Yeah, I think he is.”

-

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” Alex says, throwing his bag down. 

“Alex, calm down.” Hank cautions. “And keep your voice down.”

“No!” He says, but his voice is noticeably lowered. “Hank, no. You cannot be okay with this!”

“Believe me, I am not.” Hank replies, not reaching for Alex, not touching him. He lets him pace, lets him rage. He knows Alex well, knows what he needs to do to get his temper in check. “This is Charles' decision though.”

“Charles' decision?” Alex asks. “Oh yeah, because he's so impartial.” 

“Alex,” Hank takes off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. “This is Charles' house.” 

“And the Brotherhood wants us dead.” Alex replies vehemently. “So why do we have her children in this house? Why is _Azazel's son_ in this fucking house?”

“Because.” Hanks says, as Alex sits on the bed. “Raven is his sister. You know how Charles is. He loves her, even now. To him, the two of them are the only parts of her he can still save. It doesn't matter about their fathers, whoever the girl's may be. Raven is their mother. That's all he cares about.” 

“Azazel's tried to kill us. Often.” Alex closes his eyes. “I still have nightmares. About that night, at the CIA.”

Hank grimaces, remembering. He can't help how he looks at Alex's ear, or rather, what used to be his ear, and the scars that cut his face like valleys. 

“I know.” He replies. “I have the same one. You know that.” It isn't the only one he has about Azazel. But Alex doesn't need to know that. He would just take it as an insult.

“SHIELD still hasn't found him.” Alex is petulant sounding, as always, when it comes to Azazel. “I'm starting to give up. I know Fury is.” 

“You'll never find him.” Hank agrees, despite how much he knows Alex hates that answer. “Azazel is too smart to be caught by anyone. Just be grateful he's not active anymore.” Mostly, he just wants Alex to give up already. He's not allowed in the field anymore, for the most part, and Hank knows he would never be allowed to pursue him again, but still, he worries. He can't help it.

Alex doesn't reply, and Hank turns to him. The man is bent over, elbows on knees, shaking his head. Hank sighs, and gives in, putting a hand on his shoulder blade. He can feel the tenseness running through him, the frustration, and he kneads the tight muscle, wondering how much of this is okay. 

He's on such thin ice with Alex, he knows. He's holding on to him by a thread, at this point, and he's terrified, down to the marrow of his bones, that he will snap it by accident if he does just one thing wrong.

“Hm.” Alex almost hums the noise, as he relaxes by just a hair. “I've got some vacation time coming up, you know. Real vacation time.”

It's the first time since the fight, the big fight, that Alex has spoken of their future, and Hank wants to take it, wants them to go away and forget everything that has driven them apart. But with everything, with Jean, he knows they can't. Their problems, big as they are, are nothing compared to the mess here, to Scott's grief, Charles' guilt. To the traumatized students. He feels the argument that's about to start, and knows he's powerless to stop it.

“Things are too hectic, right now. You know that.” He hates the words, wants to bite them back the minute he sees Alex's face. But he can't stop, wonders if he explains well enough, Alex will understand that it's not personal. “We're still doing damage control, and if I'm not here to represent our views, who knows what could happen. You of all people know what Trask is up to, and,” 

Alex slips out from under his hand, getting back to his feet. 

“Yeah.” He says, and Hank reaches out, grabs his arm, desperate.

“Alex, I'm not trying to make things worse, you just have to understand, we don't have that kind of freedom right now.” 

Alex shrugs his jacket on, and looks at Hank, really looks. Hank hates how hard his eyes are, how resigned he seems. He wants this to stop, wants Alex to just see that Hank is not trying to destroy them, that he wants so badly for them to be able to go back to how they were.

“Hank, I've been hearing it for the past couple of years now. Believe me, I've got the excuses memorized.” He starts for the door, his arm slipping out of Hank's hand. It's horribly symbolic.

“Where are you going?”

“Out for a walk.” Alex says. “I want a smoke.”

“You promised to quit.” Hank replies, the words automatic, the argument such well-tread ground. They've been having it for too long. 

“Yeah, well, no point in breaking our habits in this relationship now, right?” Alex asks, and Hank doesn't like the tone in his voice. Loathes it and fears it, all at once.

“What's that mean?”

“You don't change pace in the final sprint, Hank.” Alex says, opening the door. “You're the genius. Figured you knew that.” 

He walks out, and Hank sits down on the bed instead of going after him.

There's little point, he fears.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toad's trying to find what it is SHIELD is up to, and gets more than he bargained for, as he sees just how far Trask is willing to go to exterminate the mutant race. Kurt, meanwhile, meets Alex Summers, and finds that for many people, old grudges never die. What is it that all these people seem to see when they look at him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As an advisory, you really should read the short fic _Wick_ in this series before you read this chapter. It will explain certain characters and their motivations a little better.

“Where are you, Toad?” Domino's voice asks, sounding more than a little irritated, over the feed in his ear. He doesn't answer, because he can't speak right now, but he taps the microphone in the collar of his jacket twice, lets her know he's still alive and listening. 

He's surprised he's still getting a signal, this deep in the belly of the SHIELD headquarters in Maryland. The last time he'd had to infiltrate this building, he'd lost it at the fifth floor down. He's ten down now. These labs are kept under lock, key, and enough layers of steel and concrete to survive a direct hit from a nuclear warhead. Unfortunately for them, even with all that security, they still can't quite manage to keep him from slipping through the cracks.

Really, it's almost fun. 

He's found what he was looking for, the plans for that damned collar Domino had pilfered from the SHIELD base in New York, but that place is less a base and more an outpost. He'd known that if he wanted the whole story, he would have to come here. 

He's found the whole story. 

It's not a good one. 

The blueprints in front of him are advanced enough at this point that he knows for a fact they have to be running trials on subjects. But how have they made so much progress in a matter of days? The plans Domino had stolen had been first drafts; these are months, even years, ahead of those initial plans. No one can work that fast. Not even a genius like Tony Stark with a year's worth of amphetamines at his disposal.

Unless it's a mutant, or some other kind of advanced species. Someone smarter than any human, someone with intuitive...

 _Fuck_. 

He's found the signature in the work. It's a symbol, a vague outline of a cloud done in silver marker, off in a corner. Bloody hell, SHIELD has _Forge_. Why is Forge of all people making a collar to suppress mutant abilities? He knows SHIELD never has their best intentions in mind, never has anyone's best intentions. 

He doesn't know what to do now. Forge makes him look like an idiot. He can't be expected to compete with someone with intuitive understanding as a mutation, especially Forge. He's an unparalleled genius. Christ, he might not even be able to reverse engineer this on his own, from the look of these blueprints. 

There's the panic, he thinks, clawing its way up his throat, determined to seize him, hold him tight in its embrace. He hates this, hates feeling like he's never going to be good enough. He's not. He's not smart enough to beat Forge, or Stark. SHIELD will win, at this rate. 

He stops his thoughts, forces himself to breathe while he presses his hands flat against the desk to stop them from shaking, an unsettling occurrence that's been happening since his escape. 

No, he tells himself. Maybe that's true, maybe he's not a genius like Stark, or a cheat like Forge, maybe he's just some bad-tempered freak, but he's not stupid. Everything can be broken down, he reminds himself. If he can just find the basics of this thing, find what angle Forge is working from, he can figure it out. He can. He always can. 

He starts taking photos, of every single detail, even the tools in the drawers with their neat labels in a handwriting so mechanical he could almost mistake it for typing. Has to be Forge's then, he thinks, writing with that cybernetic arm of his. That thing gave him the shivers. The story that Mortimer heard about how Forge _got_ his additions was just solid enough to be true, and just unsettling enough to let Mortimer know that Forge was not someone he wanted to meet. 

He takes another sweep of the room, looking for anything else of relevance, when he spots something else. A flash drive, in what looks to be someone's personal things, with the words _'Sentinel Initiative'_ written on it in marker. Forge's handwriting. 

That sounds like a name SHIELD would come up with, he thinks. Never ones for subtlety, SHIELD. 

The desktop computer is on and open, showing either a startling laxness in government security or just arrogance in the locks. Probably both. The drive isn't even password protected, and he huffs at it in amusement.

His derisive thoughts about the idiocy of Forge's team stop when he gets the files open on the drive. 

He thinks his heart stops for a moment there too.

It's not even SHIELD, he sees. This is _Trask's_ pet project, apparently. Forge's notes are all over the scanned plans, and when he moves the cursor over the drawings, little boxes with more notes from Forge pop up. 

_Impossible design,_ one reads, and he nods unconsciously, because this is obviously someone's idea of a nightmare, a way to create fear and panic. _Inefficient_ , reads another, and he's inclined to agree as he looks over the body of the thing. It's too heavy, too big. Just the fuel to power it would be astronomical cost-wise.

 _Barbaric,_ another box reads, going on to list why, exactly. Mortimer gets stuck on 'identification of mutants'. How? How can it do that? Forge doesn't see how it will be able to. Many mutants are otherwise indiscernible from humans without a DNA sample or a use of powers. 

So how? What could Trask have that could identify mutants without a DNA sample? _What?_

Stryker. Stryker had been making a database, hadn't he? With photo identification? Mystique had seen it, had seen how big it was. Stryker had been capturing mutants for experimentation for decades, had been torturing them for information on others. 

And that national identification system that was being talked about a few years ago, they were using public cameras, weren't they? Wouldn't be a thing, if they were to start matching names to faces, until they had a full database of citizens. Might not take long, really, to get a rough list of suspected mutants, match them to that, and load all of that into this thing's brain. They'd get more names and more photos out of those captured. People will give up anything to save their own skins in a pinch, in his experience, especially if it's a choice between giving up a relative stranger and not getting tortured for a day.

And if that registration act ever went through, it would have all the photos it ever needed to find them all, or at least those daft enough to actually register without being dragged.

 _Barbaric_ , he remembers, and scrolls back over it, reading the list of weapons on the thing. Christ, Trask really isn't losing sleep over collateral damage, is he? Bystanders will be massacred by these things. People aren't going to be able to get out of the way fast enough. 

'Containment fields', he reads, and sucks in a breath. He has to swallow hard, clutch the desk, anything to stop the sudden swell of nausea in his stomach. He puts his forehead down on the cold desk, feeling his temperature drop with it, calming him and his stomach. 

Just the thought of them, the electrical buzz on the cold white wall, his skin so tight, every muscle in his body stretched taut and aching, each breath painful. He'd never hurt so much in his entire life, had never wanted to die so badly. He'd barely been able to keep his eyes open, the white of the wall so bright, so horribly bright on his unshielded eyes. 

Trask doesn't just want them exterminated. He wants it to hurt first. 

“Toad, our distraction isn't going to hold much longer. Hurry your ass up, we need to go,” Domino says, and he snaps out of his mind. “I mean it, they're figuring it out. Mystique can't delay them anymore.” 

He taps his microphone, lets her know he hears her.

He hooks up his external hard drive, and starts copying everything on the flash drive on to it. The flash drive is full, and it takes more than a moment. He uses the time to get his goggles back on, the bright lights of the room filtering down to something he can tolerate a little more easily, then takes his drive back. 

He leaves everything exactly as he found it, locking the door behind him, just in time, as alarms start going off. 

He doesn't have time to take back his scramblers, the small patches stuck at intervals along the hall that disrupt the signal from the closed circuit cameras that SHIELD has everywhere. They've been showing a blank loop for as long as he's been here, and everything that might have been recovered has been destroyed by now. 

He takes out his phone and sets the charges for five minutes from now. It'll be quiet, just a release of foam from a small capsule in each, but it will destroy them completely. If he's lucky, SHIELD won't notice them for a time.

“Hey!” 

He turns to see two men in military uniforms, heading towards him. He gives them a quick glance, sees their weapons are still holstered, and holds out his arms innocently, putting on a confused face. _See me as harmless_ , he thinks. 

“What are you still doing in this hallway?” The one with more bits on his uniform asks, and Mortimer smiles inside as he realizes they still don't know who it is that's infiltrated. They're taking him for one of theirs. He looks the part enough, in his plain clothes. He always looks like he belongs in a lab. 

“What are the lights on for?” He asks, covering his northern accent with a more southern one.

“We've had a breech,” The soldier says, gesturing for Mortimer to come to him. “All mutants and AHL's need to get downstairs, right now.” 

“Why?” He asks, trying to needle as much information out of them as possible, as the man touches his shoulder, guides him. “Don't you want us to help?” He's trying to work out what 'AHL' could stand for while he talks, but so far he's drawing a blank. He's never been any good at guessing acronyms. 

“Not with the current situation. None of you are safe if it's Trask's men.” Well, that is terribly useful information, he thinks. SHIELD thinks Trask might try to rush them, do they? There really is dissension among the ranks. “Head upstairs now, go with the rest to the bunker.” The soldier directs, pointing down the hall, towards a door marked 'stairs'. 

“Right,” Mortimer says, giving him a mock salute before dashing off towards the stairs. Once there, he taps his mike. “Where?” He asks.

“In position,” It's Mystique's voice. He taps it twice, and heads upstairs, choosing to jump, grabbing on to the railings and springing off from them. It's fast, and easy, and he's at the correct door in just a matter of seconds. 

The doors aren't coded at this level, so he slips inside without trouble, but unfortunately, the hallway is full, and heading in one direction only. He's forced to join the melee of others, blending in easily in his black, nondescript clothes. Liam maybe had a point with this haircut, he thinks. Instead of trying to hide his mutation, he's flaunting it, and it makes him look like he's got nothing to hide. Especially since he sees other mutants in the crowd of people being directed, all of them physical, for the most part, and if not, trying to be.

They're all pretty heavily tattooed too, from what he can see. Facial tattoos, pieces on forearms and collarbones. Tribal, mostly, thick, sharp black lines, all in different designs, but all similar in style, like they were done by the same artist. Odd, he thinks. Very odd. 

A man bumps into him, and he turns, frowning, feeling prickles on the bare skin of his arm. 

“Shit, sorry,” The man says, and shakes his arm, where rows of dangerous looking quills are sticking out. They recede back into the thickly-tattooed skin of his arm as he shakes it and smiles anxiously. “Nervous, you know?” 

Mortimer nods, and keeps going until they reach where they're obviously being corralled. There's soldiers everywhere, but their guns aren't pointed at the mutants. They're directing them instead, gentle if not firm touches on backs, shoulders, instructions being shouted to stay down, stay calm, let them handle this. 

It's not exactly what he was expecting of SHIELD.

“Hey, who did your marks?” The man who brushed him before asks, pointing to the half-sleeve on Mortimer's arm. 

“Doesn't look like you have room for anymore, mate.” He replies, and the man smiles. Mortimer's serious though. The thick swirls cover his arms and the backs of his hands, and there's more starting on the nape of his neck and disappearing into his shirt. 

“Probably right.” He says. “Hey, I'm Quill. I work with the kids. What do you do?”

“I'm an engineer.” Mortimer answers automatically, then mentally smacks himself. He really needs to learn when to shut his gob. “But I'm a little new. What's going on then?” 

“Dude, seriously?” Quill asks, and Mortimer worries he's given himself away. “We've got an unfriendly in the building, apparently. So they've got to squirrel us away for safety. Fury will probably send the Witch down in a minute to get everyone calmed down.”

The Witch? 

Fuck, he thinks. Can't be. She wouldn't, would she? If it is her, and she sees him, she'll know exactly what he's up to, will have him grabbed, locked up. She'll never risk her position enough to let him get away. 

Mortimer looks at the doors, takes note of the guards' positioning. There's no way he can get past them. Fuck.

He doesn't know how he's going to get out of the building now. There's no way they'll let him walk out of this room, and there's too many people here to risk a firefight, too many children. They're going to catch him, when they start doing a headcount, even if 'the Witch' isn't who he thinks it is. He blends in for the time being, but they'll know he doesn't belong quick enough. 

He doesn't fancy his odds at this point. 

His fingers are tapping a hard rhythm on his left thigh, because he needs a cigarette so bad it hurts right now. Maybe Fury will let him have a last smoke before he throws him the deepest, darkest cell SHIELD has. If he gets a cell. Breaking in like this is sure to put him in Fury's bad books. Execution sounds more likely. Well, at least he doesn't have to worry about quitting now.

For some reason, he thinks about Kurt. Stupid thing to think about, before he dies. He barely knows him.

But the memory of Kurt's body on his, out on his balcony, his warmth under Mortimer's hands, that's such a good one. His own little furnace, who kissed him so softly, so sweetly, like Mortimer was worth something. First man to ever act like that, ever treat him like he could mean something to him. Fuck, he wants to mean something to Kurt. 

He banishes the thoughts to the back of his mind, locks it down tight, because he's in a room full of mutants, and telepathy and empathy are not uncommon mutations. That memory, that's his, no one else's, and no one else is allowed to creep in and get their sticky fingerprints all over it. 

He needs to think about how he's going to play this, in any case. Maybe he can still swing this so that he lives, with all his current parts in place. What's he got to offer that won't betray the Brotherhood or his friends? He's been keeping some tabs on Trask, and his men, but not in an intense way. Maybe he's got something they don't. The only really good files he had on Xavier's group had been on Jean Grey, and she's dead, killed at Alkali Lake by her own powers supposedly. 

His nicotine craving suddenly subsides, as a small hand slips into his left hand, stilling his fingers. 

It's Billy.

“Billy?” He asks, wondering if it's a metamorph. “What are you doing here?” He knows now though that 'the Witch' is indeed the Scarlet Witch, and he has no idea what he's going to do. Their relationship is different from what it should be, shouldn't even exist, really. How loyal is she to him? Why is she here? Is it her own free will or coercion? Fuck, why hadn't she _warned_ him? Wasn't he owed that from her?

Billy presses his finger to his mouth. “It's a secret,” He says. “Mummy says the password is ...” He stalls, his small hand warm in Mortimer's. “I'm not supposed to say the word. But she says I can this time.” 

“If your mum says so.” Mortimer says, still a little stunned, because it's _Billy_ , in SHIELD headquarters, in the United States. He shouldn't be here, none of them should.

Billy bites his lip, then crooks his finger. Mortimer crouches down, so Billy can whisper in his ear. 

“The password is 'I hate you'.” He says. It's the right password, a mutual agreement between him and Billy's mother. “'Hate' is a bad word.” He says, with all the severity of a child.

“Yes it is.” Mortimer agrees, his mind feeling strangely detached. All his panic is receding, to be replaced by a foreign tranquility, a feeling of all being well. Around him, the cacophony is quieting, as everyone calms, but it's not natural. Someone is forcibly settling everyone down, either through pheromone control, or empathy, or something. 

“Are you scared too?” He asks, and Mortimer smiles, trying to reassure him. He's still fucked, but he doesn't want to scare Billy. 

“No.” He answers. “Not scared at all.”

Billy frowns up at him, and tilts his head. The expression is so startlingly familiar, his features so similar to his mother's. 

“You're lying.” Billy says, in a rather solemn voice. 

“Yeah.” Mortimer replies, feeling guilty for lying to Billy of all people. “Sorry. Shouldn't have done that.” 

The last time he'd seen Billy had been last Christmas, when he'd been home for the holidays. Tommy, Billy's twin, an exact clone of his uncle down to his powers, had nearly knocked him over when he'd come in the door, but Billy hadn't yet shown his powers. Mortimer wonder if he has now, and what they could be. 

Again, that foreign calm grabs at him, holds him tight. He's trying to fight, but he can feel the beginnings of a headache from the backlash. He's always been pretty susceptible to telepaths and empaths, in his experience. Too many turbulent emotions in his head, too much bad temper. It makes him an easy target. When one touches him, he can't help but fall under thrall. It's pathetic, but not something he's ever been to help.

“You're not supposed to be here.” Billy says, and Mortimer nods. 

“No, I'm not.” 

It occurs to him that this could be SHIELD fucking him over. He really hopes it isn't, because really, taken down by a child? That's a humiliating way to go. He'll never live it down, assuming he lives through this.

“Make a wish,” He says forcefully, and Mortimer frowns, confused. 

“What?” He asks, wondering if Billy is playing some kind of game with him. “What do you mean by that, then?” 

His head is suddenly splitting, as the forced calm tries to push its way into his head again. An empath, definitely, he thinks. Only an empath would cause him this much pain. Telepaths gave him an ache just at his temples, but with empaths, it always felt like his head was splitting open.

He's running out of time. If they're doing this, that means they're getting ready to do a sweep. He's going to be caught any minute now, going to be shackled. Christ, he hopes they don't put him in one of those mirrored rooms, where the lights are so bright they blind him. He doesn't want to have one of those migraines in front of SHIELD, appear weak. He always throws up at some point during them too, just to add on to it. 

“You _have_ to make a wish.” Billy insists, and Mortimer looks down at him again. Whatever this game is, it won't hurt to play, will it?

“I wish I was with my team, safe.” Mortimer says, wondering how they'll take him. He hopes they don't TASER him. He'll be sick for sure from memory alone.

“Hey,” He hears, from his side. “You, identify yourself!” 

He tightens his fingers in Billy's hand, and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the pain. 

When he opens his eyes outside, to Domino and Mystique's shocked faces, he really does throw up. Mostly because that was possibly the most unpleasant teleportation ever, and that's saying something. He feels like he left half his stomach back there, and his head is still killing him from that fucking empath.

Once he's done, Mystique shoves him into the vehicle with no small amount of disgust on her face, while he tries to keep whatever is left in his stomach down. He thinks if he throws up any more, it'll be his organs coming up at this point.

“Who teleported you?” Mystique asks, after a stop at a gas station near the state line, where she buys him some water and painkillers. He's been dozing, trying to push the pain aside, and the other two have mercifully left him alone until now. 

“I don't know, exactly.” He lies. “Someone on my side.” He doesn't say _our_ side, because for whatever reason Billy was allowed to rescue him, he doubts it was out of any kind of love for Magneto or the Brotherhood. Anyone else would have been left to twist. 

More importantly though, if Billy was in that building, his mother and father most definitely are as well, and if they're working for SHIELD, the Brotherhood is in so much trouble. There are few enough Omega level mutants in the world.

Wanda Maximoff, better known as the Scarlet Witch, and her husband, Vision, are two of them.

-

In Fury's office, he waits, with Forge, for the Scarlet Witch to join them. 

When she does, it's with an unhappy expression on her face, and behind her, he briefly catches sight of the twins, Billy being swept up in an embrace by his father while Tommy dashes around his knees, right before the door shuts.

“Has Manuel managed to get everyone calm?” He asks. 

“Yeah,” Wanda answers, then gives a sharp huff. “He's not an idiot, you know.” She says, arms crossed. “He knows that if Billy's here, Victor and I are here. If he knows that, it won't be long before he starts working out what's going on around here. And I can guarantee it'll be me he's tearing a strip off of as soon as he thinks it's safe to make a phone call.” 

“You were the one who said he needed to see exactly what Trask is up to.” Fury reminds her. “What were we supposed to do? Drop the files in his mail box?” He frowns. “You know, I wasn't opposed to just grabbing him now. I want to know how his slimy ass keeps getting in my building. You're the one who keeps saying this needs a soft touch.” 

“Because he is still loyal to my father.” She says. “You're not quite understanding what loyalty means to him. It's everything. He would never betray the Brotherhood, or my father, not right now, not when he still thinks my father cares.” 

“Do you think Toad will betray _you_?” Fury asks, and Wanda shifts, sighs.

“No.” She answers, finally. “If he had to, if he had to choose between me and maybe his parents, or even his own life, maybe he'd give me up. But not the boys.” She looks back at the door. “He's got this thing about kids, you know. First body he ever saw was this little boy, maybe five or six. It stuck with him. And he loves the twins.” She huffs. “He's practically still a child himself. The boys adore him.” She says it like it's an offering, a way of saying 'see, he's not so bad'. Fury's not buying it, personally. 

“These things are ingenious!” Forge crows from the coffee table, interrupting them. In front of him, he has a dozen little tile-shaped items, one in pieces in front of him. “They send out a low-frequency scrambler to stop the cameras from recovering, then a program to run the cameras in a loop. And if they're compromised, they have a small foam capsule that destroys the whole thing without so much as a peep!”

“He made them when he was in school, when he was about seventeen, if I remember right.” Wanda says, looking distracted. “I think he wanted to change his grades. It was years ago though, I don't really remember.”

“He made these at _seventeen_?” Forge asks, looking excited, as he turns to Fury. “We have got to get him. I mean it, he'd be great on my team.” 

“Am I the only one who sees what a bad idea that particular partnership would be?” Wanda asks, pinching the bridge of her nose between her fingers. She's making a joke, Fury thinks, but it's half-hearted at best. “We put Toad and Forge together, they'll build a fort in the labs and never see the light of day again.”

Forge is so excited he's practically vibrating, and obviously not listening to a word either of them says. “He's so, so _innovative_. Put him on a team, he'll be brilliant. Now, obviously, I could build better, but the stuff we've seen him do, I would never have _thought_ of. Imagine what he could do with our resources, what he could build. If I had someone like this helping me out, Trask wouldn't stand a chance.” 

“That's if you could get him to play ball.” Wanda reminds him. “Toad's been brainwashed by my father since he was seventeen. He sees my father as the savior of mutants, and he believes every word my father has said about SHIELD.” 

“Are you sure about the relationship with his parents?” Fury asks, and Wanda nods. “Human parents, and he's working for the Brotherhood? Your father must be a better talker than I give him credit for.”

“John and Corrine Toynbee.” She says. “Corrine teaches poetry, John tends bar, both completely human. They're good people. And Toad loves them, so much. He'd do anything for them.” She smiles. 

For a moment, she seems to think, and Fury lets her. 

“The thing about Toad,” She says, with an odd expression. “Is that he needs to belong, needs to have people care about him. So he'll do pretty much anything to earn that love.” She bites her bottom lip. “He's not clingy, exactly. He doesn't actually like a lot of people. And he doesn't go out of his way to get in anyone's good graces. That would involve being, you know, pleasant.” She shakes her head. “But that's how my father got him. He praises him, strokes his ego, makes him think that he's valuable.”

“That sounds an awful lot like co-dependency.” Fury says, interested. Co-dependent people are loyal people.

“It's not co-dependency, exactly.” She corrects, almost sounding offended on Toad's behalf. “More, I don't know, a lack of self-esteem. Looking like he does, growing up where he did, it's like he's always waiting for people to turn on him.” She sighs, and uncrosses her arms. “Look, unless you can find something to put a wedge between him and my father, you have no case. Toad is loyal to a fault. My father knows exactly how to play him, keeps his approval just out of reach so that Toad is always vying for it. You want Toad, you have got to find some betrayal from my father that can't be excused.”

“There has to be something.” Fury insists, and Wanda purses her lips.

“I'm not saying there's not. My father thinks of Toad as a pawn, an attack dog. For all of that loyalty he gets from Toad, I doubt he thinks of him or his needs anymore than he does Sabretooth.” She looks almost angry about that. “You just have to find that wedge.”

Lost in his own world, Forge practically coos at Toad's little invention, and Fury represses the urge to roll his eyes. 

“What kind of betrayal would it have to be?” Fury asks, turning back to Wanda. “What would make him angry enough to turn on Magneto?”

“Something with his parents, maybe?” She says, but she sounds like she's clutching at straws. “His relationship with them is strong. He's an only child, and his mother and father adore him. He in turn feels like he has to protect them from everything.” She exhales hard through her nose. “If he thinks maybe Magneto hurt them, or didn't stop something that could hurt them, he would turn on him. And with them being human, Magneto probably doesn't give a damn about them.” She frowns suddenly. “You know, I wonder if Toad knows the details of what happened up at Alkali Lake. If he knows my father was the one who nearly killed all the humans.”

Fury's quiet for a moment, thinking to himself. 

“Do you think that would be good enough?” Fury asks. 

“I don't know.” She replies. “Maybe not. My father might be able to lie his way out of that one. You know he can lie his way out of anything.” 

“Toad seems the type to always have suspicions though. You said he's paranoid.”

“Paranoid, bad-tempered, borderline OCD, and with a mouth that'll make you want to kill him.” Wanda says, rolling her eyes. “The first time I met Toad, he called me a stupid cow and told me if I ever touched his tools again he'd show me my own spleen. I hex-bolted him into a wall, he ruined my jacket with that disgusting acid he spits.” She sighs. “When I was still with my father, I never warmed up to him like Mystique and Domino.” She gives a dry chuckle of laughter. “I always found it condescending, the way they treat him. Like he's a feral cat, only instead of taming him, they throw him mice to sharpen his claws on. They're no better than my father. They don't love him. They just want to use him.”

The description she gives makes Fury a little uneasy, as he thinks of Toad, the mutant who has been a pebble in his boot for the past ten years. He's too clever by half to be Fury's enemy, and Fury's tired of him strolling in and out of SHIELD like there's a revolving door, no matter how many times he updates the security. He's still not sure how the little pain-in-the-ass got in this time, but if he has to personally go over every inch of the building, he will find out.

“Of course, that was then.” Wanda says. “That was before he and I came to our understanding.”

“Hey, when do you guys think you could get him in here?” Forge interrupts again, dark head shooting up. “I really want to know how he figured out this capsule release. See, I've got this idea, for our computers, and he could really...” He looks between them. “What?”

“Brotherhood, Forge.” Fury reminds him. “Toad is a member of the Brotherhood.” 

“Oh.” Forge replies. “Right. Forgot. You guys are working on that, right? We don't want Trask getting his hands on this guy, trust me. If he can force someone like Toad to work for him, he'll work out the kinks in the system real fast.”

“Toad would sooner kill himself.” Wanda says forcefully, raising an eyebrow at Fury while she tilts her head at Forge. “Can you imagine what the two of them will be like together? Stark is bad enough.”

“As long as they build for me.” Fury replies, calmly. “Which at this point, is the only way he's getting out of spending the rest of his life in a cell. The man's got too many little indiscretions on his rap sheet for me to ignore. Either he comes over to our side, or he goes down with the rest of them. And trust me, I have cells with their names on them.”

Wanda's quiet for a moment.

“He's not all bad, you know.” She says a hint of pleading in her voice, of wanting him to understand. “Maybe if you had gotten to him before my father, things would be different. He just needed to belong, so badly. He was such a lonely kid.” 

“A lonely childhood is not an excuse for becoming a cold-blooded killer.” Fury says, not having an ounce of patience for her excuses. “Toad's smart, near genius levels according to _that_ genius there,” He nods his head over to Forge, still absorbed in the little devices. “And he's got skills. His mutation combined with the training he's had makes him deadly. I want him in SHIELD bad enough to give him a chance to make things right, but if he crosses us, I will put out a kill order, Wanda, regardless of your relationship with him.”

Wanda pales, and again, he sees that curious affection she seems to have for the man, no matter how harsh her assessment of him and his character is. She wants to help him, wants him in SHIELD, and not for such logical reasons as Fury does.

“He could be good.” She says. “He really could be. He just needs a reason.”

“Then find one.” He orders. “You sit there and condemn Mystique and Domino for treating him like a pet, but you treat him like a child, like he doesn't know what he's doing is wrong, like he doesn't know killing is wrong.” She winces at his words. “Just because he loves your children, just because he's a mama's boy, doesn't make him any less of a terrorist to _me_. You want him alive and free Wanda, you prove to me that you can keep him on a leash. Are we clear?” 

She nods.

“Good.”

He thinks she's going to leave now, but she lingers, looking at her feet in a way that seems almost helpless, unusual for her, the woman who is always in control. 

“He's more of his father's son.” She says, and he looks up at her, confused, before realizing she's responding to his comment about Toad being a mama's boy. “His mom loves him, don't get me wrong, but he and his dad, they're closer.” She looks up, smiling almost, her eyes damp, and Fury wonders just what he's gotten himself in the middle of. “Corrine likes me better, he always says.”

“Wanda,” He says, ready to remove her immediately from this mission, because this is so clearly personal, too close for her to see reason on.

“No.” She cuts him off forcefully. “No. He won't listen to anyone else but me. He doesn't trust you, he trusts me. It has to be me.” She nods sharply. “I'll get him here, if I have to drag him.”

He looks at her, holds her eyes. He knows her, trusts her. She hasn't failed him yet. 

“Alright, Wanda.” He says. “If you think you can bring him into the fold, do it. Find the reason he needs to be good.”

-

Kurt is in the middle of his late afternoon algebra class on Wednesday when he sees a man looking through the glass of the door. He doesn't pause in his lesson, but he keeps an eye on him as he lurks outside the door, coming in and out of sight as he paces, perhaps, just outside. 

“So, I would like you to complete problems one through ten for homework.” He assigns, his eyes flicking back up at the door, as the sounds of the students packing up starts. “I will see you all tomorrow.” Pencil bags zip, backpacks close, and books thump shut before they all scramble to their feet, talking and checking their phones. 

Kurt does the same, and finds a message from Mortimer, one that makes his heart tighten and warm. 

_-Past few days have been shite. Wish I was coming home to you.-_

_-I have dorm monitoring duties tonight. So sorry.-_ He answers, feeling genuine remorse. Switching back and forth between sleeping alone, and having another beside him is not easy on him. 

The man lurking in the hallway comes into his classroom.

Now he gets his first clear look at the man. He's white, blond, but there's grey just barely starting to wash through it, and he wears it short, in a military-esque cut. His face is lined, but some of it seems more like the lines of a hard life than age. He has facial scars, one through his lips, thin and white, and another over his right cheekbone. When he moves into Kurt's full line of sight, he sees that there's a piece missing from the cartilage of his right ear, the lobe non-existent. 

He comes closer, now obviously intent on Kurt, and Kurt sees that despite his otherwise relatively light coloring, he has dark eyes. 

They don't warm like Mortimer's do when he looks at Kurt. They're like stone, onyx maybe, cold and unreadable. 

“ _Allo_ ,” Kurt says, nervous, as he straightens his things, pushing his phone into his pocket. “Kurt Wagner,” He says, gesturing to himself. “You are?” 

“Wagner.” The man repeats, with a smile that's merely a stretch of his lips. There's no humor, no joy, nothing in his eyes at all. “That's German, isn't it?” 

“Yes?” Kurt says, feeling like he's asking a question as well. He thought his accent was rather easy to identify, judging by how accurately most people guess. “I mean, yes. I am German, but raised all over. Circus boy, you know.” He babbles, anxious under the man's gaze. He's frightening Kurt, with his intense eyes. 

“Funny.” The man says. “Could have pegged you for a Russian.” 

Kurt frowns, confused. The man says it like an accusation, but Kurt can't see how he even came to the idea. A German accent and a Russian accent sound nothing alike, and his features are not typical of a Russian, blue or not. 

“No.” He says, and the man's steely expression grows even harder. “I'm adopted though. It is entirely possible that I am Russian, by descent.” He says it only to be agreeable, to try to placate this intimidating man. Kurt dearly hopes Rogue, or perhaps Ororo, is coming to eat lunch with him. He doesn't want to be alone with this man anymore. 

“Adopted. Interesting.” This too, he says like an accusation.

Kurt crouches a little, his body instinctively wanting to be in a stronger position, in case this man is thinking of hurting him. He doubts he is, doubts anyone would commit violence in Xavier's school, not if they wanted to remain conscious for long. Still, his body is telling him that he's in danger, that this man means him ill. 

“I am sorry, what is your name?” Kurt asks again, withdrawing further. He can always teleport to the door, he reminds himself, escape. He's not trapped. He's not in a cage anymore, not blinded. He can get away. 

“Summers.” The man says, and Kurt tries to smile, tries to seem harmless, despite his fangs.

“You are Scott's brother,” He says, but the man just scowls. 

“How do you know that?” He asks, but it's more of a demand. Kurt's tail winds close to his body, ready in case he needs it. 

“ _Herr_ McCoy,” He stammers, afraid, so very afraid. There's a sudden desperate grab in his mind for Mortimer, Mortimer and his sarcasm, his strength. Kurt is not weak, will not allow himself to be, but he wishes Mortimer, or Rogue, or anyone, was standing with him. “He told me about you. How you were coming to help your brother, _seit dem Tod seiner Frau_ ,” He lapses back into German in his anxiousness, but that seems to infuriate the man.

“What did you just say?” He asks, and the room feels strange, charged, hot almost. 

“He said 'since Jean died'.” A voice says, and they both turn to see Dr. McCoy standing in the doorway, looking disapproving, almost angry. “Alex, _what_ are you _doing_ in here?” 

“Just meeting the newest teacher.” Alex, that is the name Kurt could not remember, replies, almost jovially, his eyes on Kurt. 

“I'm sure that's all it was.” McCoy says, his tone a hard warning, but not to Kurt. “The Professor wishes to have a word, Alex.” His tone is forceful, no room for argument. “ _Now_.”

“Yeah, I'm sure sure Charles wants a word with me.” Alex says, and Kurt finds that with McCoy in the room, despite his own apparent dislike of Kurt, he feels safe to turn away from Alex's intense gaze. “I've got some words for him too. Hell, I've even got a few more for you, Hank.”

“And here I thought you'd said all you had left to say to me.” McCoy says. There's an implication there, a double meaning in that sentence. Whatever it means, it makes Alex scowl, then turn on his heel, and walk away, his pace heavy, like a soldier's march. 

McCoy watches him go with what Kurt thinks might be regret, then turns back to Kurt. It's odd, he thinks, to speak to someone with the same coloring, despite Hank being so large and furry. Odd, but almost nice. 

“I'm sorry about that.” He offers, seemingly genuine in the apology. “Alex has been in SHIELD a long time. He doesn't trust newcomers.” Hank swallows. “Perhaps you will remember that I mentioned you resemble someone, vaguely. It was a man Alex and I knew, many years ago. Alex carries a bit of a grudge against him, you see.” Hank shrugs. “A big grudge, actually. You saw the scarring, on his face, his ear? That was from an encounter with him, about twenty years ago.”

“How is that my fault?” Kurt asks, almost offended. How is he responsible for the actions of someone he does not know, for something that happened when he was eight? Why should Alex extend his grudge to Kurt? 

“It's not.” Hank says, hands out in a soothing gesture. “Alex is just,” Hank seems to stumble on what he wants to say exactly. “Alex has never been very trusting in any case. He's not very friendly with new faces. You're just getting an especially bad attitude, is all. He'll warm up, eventually.” 

He's lying. Kurt knows it, but he's not sure Hank knows he knows. More than that though, he doesn't understand why Hank is lying to him about this. 

“Of course.” Kurt says reluctantly, still trying to be agreeable. He doesn't know why he should bother. He's not comfortable with any of this, and he should say something, he knows, raise a fuss about all of this. But at the same time, he just wants to be left alone. If he raises a fuss, draws attention to himself, then everything will come out into the open about Alkali Lake and the White House, one way or the other. The students could become even more anxious with him, or he could even be asked to leave. 

No matter what though, he knows he cannot trust Dr. McCoy, and he knows Alex Summers is not his friend, by any scope of the imagination. 

“Excuse me,” McCoy says, wincing suddenly. “It appears I'm needed in the Professor's study. Alex is,” He sighs, and rakes a hand through his coarse blue hair. “Alex is being Alex. So I need to go handle him. As always.”

Kurt wonders what exactly their relationship is, if it's simply a long friendship, or the kind of the kind of friendship he and Mortimer have. 

“He probably won't be here long anyway.” McCoy says, in what might be a conciliatory way. “He's heading back to SHIELD in a week.”

“So soon?” Kurt asks, though he's glad to hear it. “I thought he was going to teach?” 

“Yes, well,” McCoy says, looking uncomfortable. “He has obligations, and apparently there was some kind of emergency at work. These things happen, you know.” He swallows. “It's not anyone's fault, really.” 

“I suppose not?” Kurt hazards, feeling like this conversation isn't about SHIELD at all. He has no idea what it's about. 

Hank smiles, and leaves, with a polite wave. 

His phone buzzes, keeps buzzing, Mortimer's name showing on the screen. 

“Aren't you supposed to be working?” He asks, instead of saying hello. 

“I'm smoking,” Mortimer drawls. “I'm smoking because I miss you. So it's your fault.” 

Kurt rolls his eyes.

“You miss me, so you're smoking?” He asks, not convinced. At least Mortimer's voice has soothed away some of the fear that Alex Summers caused. “Do not use me to justify your bad habit.” 

“Either I smoke, or I come to that school and fuck you over your desk.” Mortimer replies casually, taking the deep inhale that signifies a drag of his cigarette. “And I feel like that might get you fired.” 

Kurt's blushing, can feel the heat in his face, and he jumps up on the desk in a crouch, curling into himself. 

“Do not say things like that when I am working.” He hisses. “It is very distracting.” 

“Distracting enough for you to come visit?” Mortimer asks, a hopeful lift in his voice. 

“Not even close.” Kurt replies. “I will see you on Friday.” 

“Come on, I just got home, and I'm tired.” Mortimer says, and Kurt hears him inhale again. “Could use you here.” He sounds like he means it, but Kurt really does have monitoring duties tonight, and it's unfair to everyone else for him to skip. 

“No.” He says, and Mortimer huffs. “I'm sorry, no. And what do you mean? Where were you?” 

“Had to go to Maryland, for work. I left on Monday, just got back to the flat an hour ago.” He sighs, sounding petulant. “I'll tell you about it on Friday, I suppose.” 

“Yes, you will.” Kurt replies, smiling. “Do you want to blame me for anything else?”

“Just my loneliness.” Mortimer replies. “Look, and before I ask, you can say no, Liam is having a get-together on Saturday, and he wanted to know if we would come. You want to go?”

“Do you?” Kurt asks, confused at his tone of voice. Mortimer huffs, and Kurt hears him inhale, exhale. 

“I do, and I don't. That lot can be...look, Liam's probably already told everyone who'll hold still long enough to listen, which means it's going to be an entire night of everyone being nosy, asking more questions than I like, and filling your head with stories about me that put me in a less than favorable light.” He inhales again, and Kurt thinks his cigarette must be at least half gone at this rate.

“Hm,” Kurt hums. “Sounds fun.” Mortimer scoffs, but Kurt means it. “We will go then?”

“I'd rather stay in the flat.” Mortimer replies, sounding like he's sulking. “Keep you in bed.” 

“Really?” Kurt asks, airily. “Only, if we were to go somewhere fun, drink, put me in a very good mood, maybe we could go to the park after, have another race.” He smiles to himself, his tail looping behind him. “And if you catch me, maybe this time you don't have to take me home.”

For a moment, the line is quiet. 

“How far do I get to go?” Mortimer asks suspiciously. 

“You will see, won't you?” Kurt answers, and he hears something, a lighter flicking on, maybe. Hopefully he's only on his second cigarette, and not a more worrisome number. “So are we going?”

“Yes,” He says, but it's dragged out. He inhales, and he's quiet for a minute. “I really do miss you. You're such a pain, you know that? I don't like missing people. So inconvenient.”

“Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” Kurt tells him, feeling mischievous. 

“That's stupid.” Mortimer declares. “I'm already too fond of you.”

“Are you?” Kurt asks. “Then maybe I need absence to make me fonder of you.” He's teasing, and he's sure Mortimer knows it. 

“You seem fond enough.” He replies, confirming it. He swears suddenly though, and says something in French, too under his breath and quick for Kurt to catch over a phone. “Love, I've got another call, and it's important. I'll talk to you later, yeah?”

“Alright,” Kurt says. “I will see you on Friday. Probably in the afternoon, after classes.” 

“Looking forward to it.”

He hangs up, still smiling, in a much better humor now that he's spoken to him, heard the affection in his voice. It's chased away the fear Alex put there, made him relax. 

“Aw,” He looks up to see Rogue, smiling in a very mocking way. “He's calling just to say 'hi'.” 

“He is not.” Kurt refutes. “He's calling to say he wishes I was there.”

“That's actually cuter.” Rogue says, grinning. 

“Clearly, you couldn't hear him say what he wanted me there for.” Kurt says, with a grin. It takes Rogue a moment, then her eyebrows raise and she colours a little. 

“Right,” She says. “Of course.” She smiles again, coming into the room, and already, he feels the tease in her posture. “So, that's what you two were doing all weekend?” She asks. 

“That is none of your business.” He replies, tapping her on the nose with his tail, too quickly for any absorption to happen. “I am a grown up, and I will do what I want.” 

“Like, holing yourself up for the weekend with your boyfriend in his apartment?” She asks, smiling impishly. “To commit depraved and condemned acts all over it?” She says the words very solemnly, but with a spark of mischief in her eyes.

“You assume we left the bedroom.” Kurt answers, and she laughs, a little anxiously, but it's a true laugh. 

“Well, I'm glad you had fun.” She says, boosting herself up to sit on one of the tables. “I was bored out of my skull all Friday. Kitty had some kind of online gaming marathon with her Internet friends, and Jubilee had a test on Monday she hadn't studied for, so anytime anyone talked to her, she threw fireworks at us. So I went with Sooraya to her cousin's baby's _aquiqah_.” 

“What is that?” Kurt asks.

“Some cousin, I think her name was Khadija? She had a baby and they had a big to-do over it. Sooraya invited me for company. I had to cover my hair and everything. It was kind of cool not being the only one all covered up, for once. The food was great too. Sooraya has been holding out on us with all this vegetarian crap.” She wrinkles her nose, but Kurt just shrugs. He doesn't really mind the vegetarian cooking, as long as someone is cooking.

“I am glad to hear you had fun.” Kurt says. “Mortimer and I went to a tattoo shop, and the park.” He smiles. “It was a good weekend, quiet.” 

“Is that what adults do on dates now?” She asks, frowning. “Sounds boring.” 

“When you reach my age, _liebling_ , you want boring. You want quiet.” He grins. “Also, when you are an adult, you get to replace all that awkward teenage lust with lots of sex.” 

“ _Kurt_ ,” She squeaks, slapping her hands over her ears. “Oh my god, I did not need to hear that.” She giggles like a fiend though, and leans into him. “You are the worst Catholic ever, you know that?” 

“So I have been told.” Kurt replies, shrugging. “But, you have to understand, I believe in God, yes? I believe in Him, I believe in the Son, and I believe in the saints. I believe He is infinite, and all-knowing, and always-loving.” As usual, he feels the warm glow of love in his heart when he speaks on the subject. “The Church, they condemn everything now. They condemn me, for being born the way I am, they condemn me for loving other men, and they condemn me expressing that love. But I don't think God condemns me for those things.”

“Just because you say that, do you think it makes it true?” She asks. “What if they're right?”

“They're not.” Kurt replies firmly, shaking his head. “They can't be. The God I believe in, He loves. They are misled, blind. One day, they will see that.” 

His fingers close over his rosary out of habit, and he rubs the beads between his fingers, trying to find his peace of mind again. Discussing this always worries him in a way he doesn't like. He know, he _knows_ , that God can see the true affection in his heart for Mortimer, can see the seeds of what could be love, one day, and he knows God can't condemn something as beautiful as love. 

He believes this, with all his heart. If he doesn't, well, he just has to believe it. He has no other option. 

“You keep using that word,” Rogue says. “ _Love_. How do you know? How do you know you love someone?”

“I don't love him.” Kurt says quickly. “I haven't known him long enough.” He hopes he's telling the truth, because he's an adult, and adults don't fall in love after knowing a man for two weeks. It's just, well, it's not proper. “But I could love him, one day. I don't know how I know that. I just know that when I'm with him, I feel connected to him. We are very similar, you see, our mutations, our lives. We understand each other.” 

Rogue boosts herself up to sit beside him on the desk, her shoulder bumping his. He pulls his knees to his chest, while Rogue lets hers swing free, thumping the desk in the rhythm of a heartbeat. 

“So, all of that tells you that you might be in love with him one day?” She asks. “How?”

“Well, it's difficult.” Kurt says, unsure of how to explain. “Sometimes you feel connections with people, and it is because they are meant to be your friends, or meant to become your family, like how it is in the circus. My connection with him though,” He smiles, a little embarrassed. “The first night I met him, I wasn't,” He pauses, and puts his hand over his chest. “We had a race, through the trees. I won, and for my prize, I asked for his name. He told me I could have it for free, and called me 'love', and my heart was beating so hard I thought I could feel it against my ribs.” 

Rogue is smiling, a little, but she's contemplative too. 

“What if I don't feel that way about Bobby?” She asks, quietly. “Does that mean I won't love him?” 

“Do you think you love him?”

She doesn't meet his eyes, just bites her bottom lip and gives a furtive shake of her head. 

“I liked him a lot, when I met him.” She says. “He was really sweet. Still is. But, I don't know. I feel like we're just going through the motions now. He's mad at me all the time, I'm mad at him. I mean, what's the point in putting that much effort into something when we're teenagers?” 

“I don't know.” Kurt replies, shrugging. “I can't tell you, _liebling_. There is no one good answer for these kinds of things. But I can tell you that if you're not happy, if you feel like you are spending more time fighting than being together, then maybe the relationship has run its course.” He brushes some of her hair off her shoulder. “It happens, you know. It's not anyone's fault.” 

Rogue kicks her feet against the desk for a little while, and Kurt waits her out, patiently winding his tail back and forth. 

“The things is,” She says. “Alkali Lake kind of changed everything, yeah, but if I'm honest, it started after Magneto almost killed me. Bobby was great after that, really sweet to me, and everything, but that spark, it was just...” She sighs, staring ahead. “It was gone. I kept trying though, and just when it was starting to feel normal again, Alkali Lake happened.”

She touches her temple in memory of the pain, and Kurt balls up even tighter at the phantom ache that comes whenever he thinks about those minutes, the longest of his life. Even the fire, the beating, the torture that he only remembers in dreams from Alkali Lake, those memories are nothing compared to when the Professor's machine was turned on them. He had almost wanted to die, the pain was so excruciating. 

“Bobby held my hand.” She says. “In the plane. I thought that was supposed to make people feel better, but I just felt the pain.” 

“I know what you mean.” He replies. “That was horrible.” 

Her gloved hand slips into his and squeezes tight. 

“Rogue?” He asks, her miserable expression too much for him to bear. “Would you like to try something?” 

“What?” 

“Control.” He says, and her eyes widen. “I have a memory, I think you might like. I'd like to share it with you.” 

“Kurt, I don't know if that's how it works,” She replies, shaking her head. “I could hurt you.” 

“Just a second.” He says. “Just a little touch. I will teleport if you start to take too much.” 

She's indecisive, he can see, but she wants to try too. She wants control, so badly, and he can understand why. To be without the simple comfort of touch must be a truly excruciating burden for her to bear. 

She pulls on the fingers of her gloves, her breath unsteady, until she has it off, her hands pale as milk. 

Kurt holds out his hand, one finger extended, and concentrates hard on the memory he wants her to see, one of the most joyous moments in his life, the first time he flipped through the air on the trapeze, the feeling of almost-flight, of knowing exactly what he needed to do, being so completely in control, as his tail grabbed the next one.

Rogue's finger touches his, and there's a rush, like being dumped with ice water, before she lets go. 

He shudders, shakes his head, as it quickly fades.

“Oh,” Rogue says. 

He looks up at her, at the beautiful smile on her face, as she lives his memory, and he laughs, presses a quick kiss to her hair in his joy. 

“I knew you could, _liebling_ ,” He says.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanda tries to tell Toad her side of the story. Toad tries to reconcile his beliefs with his heart, but only ends up with a migraine. Meanwhile, Kurt and Alex start to step onto friendlier ground.

Wanda almost can't bring herself to dial the number. But she has to, really. Has to explain, tell him she hasn't betrayed him. She would never, she thinks. 

She's always been able to recognize her flaws as a person, has always been able to see where she's wrong, where she needs to improve. She's too quick to temper, for example. She always has been. It's Victor who always stays calm, even when the boys are driving her up the wall. Those are the times she has to go take a walk, and Victor handles the twins. 

Because by knowing her flaws, she knows how to manage them. It's only logical to accept them and find the doable solutions.

So when Fury accused her of treating Mortimer like a child, she couldn't just ignore it. She has to think about it, mull it and all its implications over, judge whether or not it's a valid statement. Is she treating Mortimer like a child?

He'll be twenty-seven next month, she thinks. 

She tries to remember how she interacts with him, if she treats him like he's twenty-six or eleven. She's not sure. 

“My love,” She looks up to see Victor in the doorway, the bulletproof sliding glass door open to let in the night air. “What are you thinking about so hard?” 

“Do you think I treat Mort like a kid?” She asks. 

Victor's brow furrows, and he walks out to join her, leaning against the railing of the balcony. 

“Do you want an honest answer?” He asks. “I only ask to know whether you want me to make you feel better, or if you need a real answer.” 

Wanda sighs, and leans against his shoulder. 

“Honesty, please.” 

“Dearest, I don't think you do it on purpose.” Victor answers. “But to be fair, his mother treats him that way too. You and Corrine baby him, for lack of a better word. You fuss over him smoking, when he's well aware of why he shouldn't, you smack him for swearing, you get after him about eating his vegetables the same way you do the boys,” Victor raises his eyebrows meaningfully, as Wanda groans. “I don't think he minds it, though, if that's what you're worried about.” 

“That's not the problem.” She says. “The problem is that I need to remember that he's not a child. He's so...” She trails off, unsure of how to justify herself. “He never eats like he should! He lives on take-away and cigarettes! What am I supposed to do, just let him get lung cancer? Let him starve?” 

Her excuses are weak, and she knows it. She just likes doing it, likes thinking that maybe she's a little bit responsible for the way he's come out of his spiny, defensive, hedgehog roll in the past eight years. She tells herself she's taught him a few better manners, taught him to be a little more willing to see the good in people. She's taught him not to swear in front of children, at the very least. 

Maybe she shouldn't do that, she thinks, shouldn't put a serving of carrots on his plate at Christmas dinner, shouldn't lecture him about his smoking, shouldn't put a blanket over him when he falls asleep in her living room with the boys, some awful movie's credits rolling. Those terrible martial arts movies that he and the boys loved, or worse for his reputation, something from Disney. 

“Wanda,” He says. “I never liked this whole...arrangement...you have with him. He's dangerous, and I do not like him very much, as you well know.”

“Calling people names is how he shows affection.” She replies, crossing her arms over her chest. “And I like him.” 

“You love him.” Her husband corrects, with a knowing look, and she cringes. “You're like those mad people who keep porcupines as pets. He calls you a cow, you give him a biscuit and tell him not to lean back in the new chairs.” 

He's right, and she has no more arguments. 

“I want him safe.” She says. “Is that so bad?” 

“No, my dear.” He says, pulling her close and kissing the top of her head. “It's one of those qualities that makes you wonderful, and one of the many reasons I love you so.”

“Damn,” She swears. “I have to call him, explain.”

Her husband calmly takes the phone from her hand, and scrolls through her contacts. He lands on Mort's name and hands it over, before backing away, towards the door. 

“I'll leave you to it then, my sweet.” He says, and she scowls after him. 

“A little support here?” She demands. 

“I think I hear one of the boys,” Victor says, and disappears back into the apartment. 

Wanda mentally plans a gleeful revenge for a moment, before steeling herself and pressing the call icon. Victor's calmed her down, so that means now is the time to do it, now, when she can handle him best.

He answers on the third ring.

“You fucking traitorous _cunt_ ,” He swears, as a greeting. “You told them about me, you told them about my parents, I should fucking rip out your throat, I should,”

“For once in your life, shut up and listen to me!” She barks, frustrated with his knee-jerk reaction to start name-calling before he knows anything at all. He always does this, is always so defensive, so willing to believe the worst in everyone. “You little twerp, I never told them a damn thing about John or Corrine! You're the one who went and bled all over the place in Indonesia!”

“They shot me!” He snaps.

“You probably deserved it!” She snaps back, because it's most likely true. “I can't believe I let you escape, you asshole, I should have let Fury put you in a cell!” 

“Fuck you!” He shouts, loud enough she has to hold the phone away from her ear. “Fuck you, you stupid whore!”

She hangs up and screams in frustration. Why does she even try to have conversations with him, she wonders? He's such an immature little jackass. She should have just let Fury capture him and then smack him around until he sees sense. It's the only way with him. 

She breathes out hard through her nose, and paces on the balcony for a moment. 

The phone rings again.

“Don't you ever call me a whore again, you bastard!” She warns, and hears his disgusted huff.

They're both silent for a moment, circling each other almost, each waiting for the other to apologize first.

She sighs.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about SHIELD.” She says, mostly meaning it. 

“I'm sorry you're such a stupid-” 

“Do you want me to kill you?” She snarls through gritted teeth. “I'll do it, don't tempt me. Your own mother would forgive me. She had to raise you, after all. The fact she's not on medication amazes me, and almost everyone else who has ever had to interact with you.” 

He's silent, for a long time, but she can hear him breathing. 

“How did Billy do that?” He asks, and she closes her eyes, leans back on the railing.

“His power. It's how he channels it. He just wishes for something, really hard, and sometimes, he can make it happen. Like he did for you.” Her son is powerful, she suspects, maybe even an Omega level mutant. He can't really be tested at this stage, of course, but the possibility frightens her. “How's your head?”

“Fucking killing me.” 

Again, they're quiet, and she wishes they could be having this conversation in person. She wants to check on him, make sure he's okay. He still looked ill, from the distance she'd seen him at, too thin, too pale. She'd seen him at Christmas last, and he'd been worse then, but pretending he wasn't. 

He'd been out two weeks, at Christmas. She'd almost been too scared to hug him, scared he would break. And when he'd flinched at the sound of the electricity humming suddenly, she'd nearly sobbed, because she knew, she _knew_ , what they'd done to him. 

“You know I would never hurt you.” She says, and means it.

“No I don't.” He replies childishly. “What are you _doing_ with them?”

“Fury recruited me and Victor.” She explains. “Mortimer, it's not what you think. Not at all. My father lied to us, SHIELD isn't experimenting on anyone, not without their permission. It's not who they are, not anymore. They haven't been like that for a long time, apparently. Not since Stryker was removed from power.” She sighs. “That was almost twenty years ago. Fury is just trying to help us.”

“Am I just supposed to believe that?” Mortimer spits, and she can hear movement, paper sliding. “He wouldn't lie without reason, you know it.”

Wanda exhales, and inhales, to a count of ten.

“And I would?” She asks. 

He's quiet, and she hears the sound of him inhaling. He's smoking. 

“Those things are going to kill you.” She lectures, but even she hears how gentle a rebuke it really is. 

“Not if SHIELD gets there first.” He says, then says nothing at all for another minute. He's so bad at this, she thinks, so bad at telling people what he's really thinking, maybe because even he doesn't know. He's such a mess inside, such an angry, confused man. So many people won't even bother with him, won't even try to see past all the sharp, jagged edges to the man hidden within. 

“The boys have been asking after you. Tommy really misses you.” 

It's all she can offer him, really. Her affection is just as damaged as his, if she's honest with herself. Neither of them are very well-functioning adults. But the boys, and their simple understanding of good and evil, their easily-earned love, this she can share with him. He never has to try with them, never has to try and be someone he can't.

“Tell them I'll see them on their birthday.” He replies, sounding tired. “Or something. I'll see them, somehow.” 

“No presents this year.” She warns, trying to stay on this even ground. “I mean it Mort, no presents!”

He snickers in reply.

“Right, I'll be sure to stick to that.” 

“God, you're the reason they're so spoiled, you know that?” She says, suddenly irritated with him again. “You give them shit just to annoy me.”

“Does that seem like something I would do?” He asks. 

“That's you to a 'T',” She growls. 

Again, they are quiet, as the desperate affection she feels for him starts to override the almost normal banter they have going. He's just so stubborn, and so incredibly stupid, for all that he's so smart. She's trying so hard to save him, pull him out of the vortex that is her father, but she feels like she'll never have a good enough grip. She needs to save him though, needs to be able to save the stupid, foul-mouthed boy who hid her from her father, who smokes on her front steps, who makes her boys laugh. 

“Mort,” She says, almost pleads. “Trust me on this.” 

He's quiet.

“Wanda,”

“ _Please_ ,” She begs. “Trust me.”

“It's SHIELD.” He says.

“It's _me_.” She replies. 

This time, his silence stretches on and on, for so long she worries that she's done irreparable damage to their relationship, that he's too scared and mixed up to even try to believe her. Mortimer likes things to be simple, clear. He likes order and neatly drawn battle lines. Blurring the lines the way she's done has to bother him deeply, and she knows it's possible he'll just shut down completely instead of trying to understand. 

“What's going on?” He asks, and he sounds so young, too young, really, and so confused. She suddenly wants him home, with her and the family, in the kitchen, so he can make tea, or fiddle with something, somewhere he's comfortable. “What are you doing with them?” She starts at the question, but pounces on it, because he's listening, he's thinking. This is her chance. 

“Helping our kind.” She says, trying to drive the wedge into this little chink in his thick armor. “In a better way than my father.” He says nothing, and she can almost picture his expression, the furrow of thought on his brow. “You know my father just makes things harder on mutants when he reinforces every fear the humans have about us. When he uses you like an attack dog,” She huffs in anger. “God, Mortimer, you're an engineer who was recognized as brilliant at sixteen! And my father downgraded you to _criminal_. How can you let someone do that to you?”

“What else am I good for?!” He demands.

“Are you kidding me?” She shouts back. “God damn, Mortimer, you're so much smarter than this! I am trying to save your sorry ass, and you won't let me, because you think looking like a freak gives you justification for being my father's thug!”

There's a hard silence, as she realizes exactly what she's said. 

“Mort,” She tries, but he cuts her off.

“Fuck you.” He practically whispers it, and she knows how badly she's blundered, that she's wounded him with the barb, hit him right where he's weakest. 

That's the problem when you love someone, she thinks. You're the person who can cut them the deepest.

“No, Mortimer, listen to me, please,” She pleads, trying to take it back. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I was just pissed,”

“Why do you care what happens to me?” He asks nastily, and she berates herself. Mortimer is like a cat when he's hurting, lashing out at anyone who dares to come near. “I don't need this shit from you. Fuck you, fuck you right to bloody hell.” 

He hangs up on her before she can say anything else, and she screams in frustration, putting her hand over her mouth to muffle the noise. 

God, she thinks. Way to fuck that up. He's going to find somewhere to hide and lick his wounds now, probably wherever he's holing up. Fury thinks Boston, but if she knows her father, it's exactly where he shouldn't be, which is as close to Charles Xavier as he can get. That means the outpost in New York. Small, mostly underground, and easily defended. Mortimer is within a fifty mile radius of Westchester, she's sure of it.

She has to find him. She has to shake him until he understands, until he accepts that she knows best, and she is trying to help his stupid arse. 

There's got to be something, she thinks. Something that will convince him that this war her father wants to wage is just going to be killing on top of killing, senseless violence. If nothing she says will penetrate that thick skull of his though, who can even begin to get through to him?

-

Friday is an exciting day, for Kurt. All morning, he's full of anticipation, looking forward to meeting Mortimer's friends, to the race they could have tomorrow, or maybe even tonight. He wants, more than anything else, to just relax again. 

He's certainly not getting any kind of relaxation in the school. 

He's had three more run-ins with Alex Summers since Wednesday, all of them unpleasant, and last night, he'd had the unfortunate luck of over-hearing an argument between him and McCoy.

They did in fact share a bedroom, he'd discovered, but their relationship was not a happy one, from what he could see. They did not touch each other, or if they did, it was with no affection. They snapped at each other more often than they spoke, unpleasant barbs that made everyone around them uncomfortable. They did not even sit beside each other at meal times.

The argument they'd had last night had been so loud, he'd heard Scott knock on their door, heard his quiet directions that they either keep it down, or take it somewhere else. The children, he'd said, didn't need to hear what they were saying. 

It had mostly been angry words, from what Kurt had overhead. Angry words from angry hearts, and an overwhelming sadness from the both of them.

Kurt actually feels sorry for the two of them, despite their shabby treatment of him. No one deserves to be wounded in such a way from the person they love, the person they are supposed to be able to depend upon above all others. 

It will be good to escape it, he thinks. Good to be with Mortimer, be happy, safe. Mortimer has no angry words for him yet, and he himself has none to give. 

“Wagner,” He turns, to see Alex Summers in the doorway of his bedroom. He'd come up here in the break between classes to place the German translation of the Koran that Sooraya had given him in his overnight bag, determined to at least start on it this weekend. “Going somewhere?” 

Kurt swallows, as his tail creeps up closer to his body. 

“Yes,” He answers. “My friend. I spend the weekends with him.” 

“Lot of time to be spending with a _friend_ ,” Alex replies, emphasizing the word, as he invites himself into Kurt's room. 

It's noticeably bare. Kurt doesn't own many things, really. A few posters from when he was in the circus that he is fond of, but hadn't dared put up in Xavier's home, some small possessions that he keeps in neat order around the room, but mostly hidden away. He sees Alex take it all in though, catalog it all, as though it could be important.

“He is my friend,” Kurt says, shrugging. “In the same way _Herr_ McCoy is your friend, yes?” 

Alex takes his meaning, and actually seems somewhat surprised. Kurt doesn't blame him. He gets confused at the idea of anyone enjoying his company sexually as well, more often than not. Still, McCoy is even stranger, he thinks, and Alex obviously has no problem with it. No, that doesn't seem to be the source of their problems at all. 

“I am very busy here,” Kurt says, elaborating to fill the silence, his tail winding back and forth. “And he is busy during the week as well. So we spend weekends together. It is the only time we have that is just ours.” 

Alex looks at him with something like guilt, but directed at himself, not Kurt. Kurt only recognizes it for what it is because while Hank's appearance has nothing to do with their arguments, he knows the time Alex devotes to his work does. That's what they shout about the loudest, really. 

Alex turns away, and continues his investigation of Kurt's bedroom.

“Lots of these things,” He remarks offhandedly, as he picks up one of Kurt's prayer cards, then carelessly drops it. It flutters to the ground, and Kurt kneels to scoop it up with a pang of annoyance.

“They're prayer cards.” Kurt tells him, keeping his voice even. “Please, be more careful, my aunt drew these for me.” 

When he looks up, he sees Alex is touching something on Kurt's dresser, his broad back to him so that he can't see exactly. When he turns though, Kurt is displeased to see that it's the wall crucifix his mother gave him. He had not wanted to put any holes in the wall, so he had leaned it up against the mirror. He doesn't like Alex touching it, especially after his thoughtless treatment of the cards, and wants to snatch it away from his hands. 

He's too scared to try though, and besides that, it's unnecessarily rude. Alex hasn't done anything to deserve quite that much hostility from him. 

“Please,” He says instead. “Put that back, it is very old, and fragile.” Indeed it is, made from olive wood and brought from the Holy Land. It had been an antique when Kurt was a boy still. 

Alex isn't listening though. He pushes at the top panel, and seems momentarily pleased when it slides open, but disappointed when all he sees are the candles, holy water, and cotton within. Kurt wonders what he was expecting to find. 

“What's this?” He asks.

“It's for when there is illness.” Kurt explains, moving forward in an attempt to take back the precious item. “Please, it belonged to my mother, it is very dear to me.”

“Your mother?” Alex really seems thrown off by that. Why? Kurt is so confused. “Is she Catholic?” Kurt's even more confused now. Of course his mother is Catholic, why else would he have been raised in the faith? Why does Alex even care?

“Yes, she is.” Kurt answers, as he manages to get his hands back around the crucifix. 

Unfortunately, his fingers brush Alex's, and when they do, Alex abruptly lets go. Kurt's grip is still not strong, and the crucifix falls right out of his hands. Frantically, he tries to catch it, but he's too slow, and it hits the hardwood floor with a sickening crack. 

“No!” Kurt cries, at the same time Alex swears. Kurt falls down to a crouch, and gently starts picking up the pieces. He's heartbroken as he realizes how large the crack is along the back, and the top panel is in two pieces. The item is irreparable to him. The holy water has shattered as well, and one of the candles is snapped along the middle, held together by the wick alone. Kurt feels close to tears as he gathers the items up and sets them on the dresser, Alex moving aside for him. 

It is just an item, he attempts to rationalize, but it was his mother's, and important to her. She had trusted him with it as a gift to keep him safe, and now he has broken it. He is a terrible son, truly, to not be able to keep such a precious gift in a good state. 

“Sorry, I just, I didn't mean,” Alex seems wrong-footed now, like he's not sure what to do. He's apologized at least, and Kurt supposes that's the best he can ask for from a man who so clearly loathes him. “Can you fix it?”

“No.” Kurt answers, miserable. 

“Um,” Alex looks confused now, and Kurt wonders what else he wants to destroy, why he won't just leave. Even his patience has limits, and Kurt is really on the edge of his. “Alright, I'll just...I'll just go. I'm sorry.” 

“Yes,” Kurt says, his shoulders slumping. “It is alright, I suppose. It can be replaced.” It can, but it won't hold the same sentimental value as this one did. Still, it was an accident, and despite Alex's hatred, he hadn't meant to break it. It's wrong and petty for Kurt to hold a grudge against him for an accident. 

Alex lingers though.

“Aren't you angry?” He asks. Kurt wonders what exactly this man wants from him, what he wants Kurt to do, exactly. Yell? Swear? 

“No,” He answers. “I am upset at the loss. It held great value to me. But you did not do it on purpose.” He recalls that it was his touch that made Alex jump, and feels a wave of sorrow wash over him. It had been his strangeness, his unnatural hands, that had startled the man, so this is perhaps partly his fault. “I should not have touched you. Many do not like it. I am sorry.” 

Alex says nothing, as Kurt looks down at the broken heirloom despairingly. For a moment, it seems like Alex wants to say something. Kurt feels his hand raise over his shoulder, hears him clear his throat. But he does neither of these things, and eventually, he leaves. 

Kurt studies the crucifix, hopeless. He's never been very good at this kind of thing. He wouldn't even know where to start. But Mortimer, he thinks, Mortimer is so smart. Maybe he can fix it?

He gets out his phone and presses his name on the contact list.

“Don't be canceling on me.” Mortimer says, when he picks up. “You have no idea how badly I need to see you.”

“I am not.” Kurt assures him. “I only want to ask, can you fix wooden things?”

“What kind of wooden things?” Mortimer asks, and Kurt hears him yawn. 

“Did I wake you?” He asks, worried. 

“Yeah, but I'll fall back asleep in a minute.” He reassures Kurt. “What is it that's broken?”

“My crucifix, it fell. I was wondering if you could help me repair it.” He's hopeful, his tail curling in tight loops as he waits. 

“No, sorry, pet. That's not my area. But I do know someone who can. My mate, Patrick, he could do it. Pack it up and bring it with you, and we can show him tomorrow, yeah?” He says, then yawns again. 

Kurt's smile could break his face, he's so pleased. 

“Yes, thank you. I will do that.” 

“Hey, dove, before you hang up, you want to go see a film tonight?” Kurt catches on the 'dove', a new one, he thinks, but then he hears the rest of what Mortimer has said. 

“I do not to go to places like that.” Kurt says, winding his tail through his fingers anxiously. “I make too many people nervous, and the space is enclosed, so they get more nervous, and I just,”

“Love,” Mortimer says. “Trust me. Won't be a problem.”

Kurt is quiet for a moment.

“Are you sure?” He asks tentatively, not quite daring to hope. 

“Positive.” Mortimer's got a secret, Kurt can hear it in the tease of his voice. He wonders what it is. A cinema run by mutants? 

“Alright.” He replies, still anxious at the thought. He's never actually seen a film in a cinema though, and he wants to, very badly. If Mortimer thinks they can, he's really not going to put up much of an argument. 

“Alright then. I'll see you tonight. Til then, going back to sleep. 'M knackered.” Mortimer says, and then his end goes quiet. 

Kurt packs up the crucifix gently, wrapping it in a thick shirt and then carefully surrounding it with the other clothes in the overnight bag, some of which are actually Mortimer's, that he borrowed last weekend and washed. He's almost reluctant to return those things, and he's embarrassed to admit that he'd slept in the shirt that still smelled like him twice before washing it yesterday. There's something very comforting about it though, the smell of his cigarettes and aftershave, like he's there, beside Kurt, keeping away the bad dreams with a gentle endearment.

_“Come here, love,”_

“'Love comforteth like sunshine after rain,'” Kurt quotes, feeling silly.

Then he stops, and realizes with dawning fear what he has said, without thinking.

Oh no, he thinks. Oh no. No. That is ridiculous. What he feels is the elation of knowing another's touch, of wanting someone. Of attraction. No, he reasons. No. He is not doing this. 

The bell rings, and he starts, quickly closing the bag quickly and ducking out the door. He locks his bedroom behind him and hurries down, teleporting to the staircase, then down to the landing, where he leaps over the railing and neatly lands in a tumble on the rug. He teleports again, through the crowd of moving children, and reappears on the pillar right beside his classroom, where he flips off and follows his students in. 

“ _Herr_ Wagner,” One of his students says, and he turns with a smile, putting his worries out of his head. “I had some trouble with page eighty in the workbook, and so did Todd and Amy.” 

Kurt takes the workbook from her, studying the page.

“Did anyone else have trouble with page eighty?” He asks, and a good number of hands go up. So he starts his lesson there, reviewing the material they'd gone over concerning it. 

He enjoys teaching, he's found, when it's the higher level class. The level one German class is horribly frustrating, mostly students attempting to fill a credit. These students genuinely want to learn the language, and are trying hard to do so. 

The class goes by quickly, and so does the one after that. 

He grades what he needs to, and starts drawing up next week's lesson plan, changing the rough draft for level two German to include a review of verb-noun agreement. 

The rain starts right as he finishes, and he sighs in frustration. He'll definitely get wet now, on the way over. 

He stops by Rogue's room to say good-bye first, but finds her with company. Specifically, Alex Summers. Kurt is growing weary of this man.

“Kurt!” Rogue says, smiling at the sight of him, surprisingly looking quite happy. Perhaps Alex is finally warming up to her? That would be good, he thinks. She needs kindness, more than most.

“Hello _liebling_ ,” He says, smiling at her. “I'm getting ready to leave. I just wanted to say good-bye, and to wish you a good weekend.” He turns to Alex. “Hello again.” 

“Hey,” Alex says, and Kurt might be imagining things, but there is perhaps less hostility in his voice then there has been before. “I was just talking to Rogue here about the Blackbird. Scott says she's interested in learning to fly her.” 

“Alex says he'll teach me, since Miss Munroe and Mr. Summers have their classes.” Rogue is so excited, she's practically bouncing, and Kurt is happy to see it, even if he's still leery of Alex.

“That's wonderful, _liebling_ ,” He says, and wraps an arm around her shoulders so he can kiss the top of her head, safely over her hair. “You are staying then?” He asks, directing his question at Alex. “ _Herr_ McCoy gave me the impression you were soon to leave us.” 

Alex's expression darkens like a storm cloud, and Kurt almost recoils. 

“Hank said that, huh?” He asks, and Kurt sees it's not him, or Rogue, that Alex is angry with. “He say anything else I should know about?”

Kurt considers things, then shakes his head, choosing to keep what Hank told him about his resemblance to someone in Alex's past to himself. He doesn't know why, but for some reason, he thinks maybe that's something he shouldn't share. He doesn't think Hank was supposed to tell him, and he's scared of trying Alex's temper. He's being kind to Rogue, and Kurt doesn't want that to change. 

“Right.” Alex says, nodding tightly. “Rogue, tomorrow, at ten, we'll try with the flight stimulator. And Kurt?” Kurt raises his eyebrows. “I really am sorry about the cross. If you want, I'll pay for it to be fixed.”

“That is alright.” Kurt says, waving him off. “My friend, he says he knows someone who might be able to fix it.” He shrugs, choosing to let it go. The crucifix was precious, but a peaceful household more so. 

“No, really,” Alex insists. “I broke it, I'll fix it, or buy you a new one.” 

It occurs to Kurt, as he studies Alex's almost earnest expression, that perhaps this is Alex's way of trying to make peace between them after his open animosity to both Kurt and Rogue. 

“I'm sure it will be fine.” Kurt says. “But thank you.”

Alex smiles, or attempts to, Kurt thinks.

“Okay,” Alex says. “Well, it seems like I've got to go talk to Hank. Don't know where he got the idea I was leaving.” His face changes, loses some of the ever-present hardness. “I'm not the one leaving.” He says it so quietly, Kurt thinks it's more of a private thought accidentally voiced aloud, not something he meant for them to hear.

He strides off without another word, and he and Rogue exchange a look. Rogue shrugs, apparently just as confused as he is by the whole thing. 

“Man, I do not want to be in the middle of those two.” She says, with an eye roll. “You know, Jubes, Kitty and me can hear those two fighting all the way downstairs. Our room isn't even directly below theirs. Theresa says she caught them fighting in the library the other day too.” She raises her eyebrows. “She says they're totally in the middle of whatever the gay equivalent of a divorce is. Must be what he meant.” 

“I think it's just known as breaking up.” Kurt replies, with an amused frown. 

“Well, they've been together for like, forty years, so I think it's a bit more than 'breaking up' at this point,” She says. 

“Do you hear all the gossip?” Kurt asks, half-smiling, half-frowning at her. He knows it's the nature of teenagers to do so, but he doesn't want her developing any bad habits. 

“Kitty knows everything.” She replies, with a smirk. “I mean like, everything, about everyone. She's like Facebook on crack.” 

“Facebook? What is that?” Kurt asks, confused. Rogue just shakes her head. 

“I'll show you on Monday, if your boyfriend doesn't.” She promises. “God, Kurt, you're so weird sometimes. You and Sooraya, it's like you were living under rocks.” She crosses her arms, and sighs. “So I guess I'll see you on Monday?” 

“You will.” Kurt says. “Or late Sunday.” 

“Alright,” She says, and surprises him by initiating a hug, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. He hugs her back, briefly, then releases her. “I'll miss you.” 

“And I you,” He says, leaving her to grab his things out of his room. 

At his window, he looks out and sighs at the uncooperative weather. He should really just learn to drive, but he doesn't know that they would let him get a license. Besides that, he thinks you need to provide proof of residence for something like that. 

He grabs his jacket, and pulls his hood up, resolved to just get it over with. It's not like the rain will hurt him, he supposes. He can just dry off when he gets there. Hopefully, it doesn't turn to sleet halfway there.

It does, of course.

By the time he gets to the apartment, he's soaked, and half-frozen. He comes in through the balcony, when he sees Mortimer smoking outside, the lit end of his cigarette lighting up the lines on his face. 

“You alright there, pet?” He asks, snickering. 

“If you laugh at me, you will be very lonely this weekend.” Kurt warns him, heading inside. He goes straight for the bedroom, where he puts his bag down and starts stripping. His wet coat he hangs in the master bathroom, his clothes he drops in the basket. 

He runs the water in the shower hot, but he isn't alone long. Mortimer joins him in the bathroom, leaning on the counter, to judge from the shadows behind the curtain. 

“What's the damage on the crucifix?” He asks. 

“It is in my bag, on top,” Kurt says. 

Mortimer walks out into the bedroom, and Kurt supposes he rummages through his things. He himself enjoys the hot water, and the slowly returning feeling in his fingers, toes and tail. It is nice to not have to worry about using up the hot water, and he appreciates the quiet. It's always so noisy in the mansion, not a moment of solitude or peace to be had. 

“The fuck did that damage?” Mortimer asks, his words rolling together so thick, Kurt can barely understand him over the water. “And why do you have so many of my shirts?” 

Kurt chooses not to answer, embarrassed, and Mortimer chuckles. 

He's warm now, so he turns the water off, and steps out, grabbing a towel off the rack. There's a surprising number of them, neat, clean and stacked. Actually, the whole of Mortimer's apartment is surprisingly neat, neater than wherever Kurt ends up nesting. Kurt tends to hoard things, and he can never be bothered with such simple chores as making his bed.

“Do you have a cleaning service?” He asks, curious, but Mortimer shakes his head. 

“Only when I'm gone. I don't like them being in here when I'm living here.” He wrinkles his nose. “I have this thing about my space, is all.” That means it's Mortimer who does all this cleaning. He supposes that makes sense. An engineer would need to be neat, organized. 

Mortimer is sitting on the bed when Kurt comes in. He has the crucifix laid out, completely focused on the pieces. He's shirtless, so Kurt takes the time to admire his form, the hard muscle of his arms and chest cutting clean shadows in the lamp light. He almost appears green in this lighting, almost, but not quite. Like one of those lollipops with the bubble gum within, only reversed, Kurt thinks. 

That's a silly thought, and it makes him smile. 

“This thing looks pretty old.” Mortimer says, with a sigh, wrapping the item back up and getting up to place it on his dresser, where it will be safe. 

“It was my mother's.” Kurt explains, now fully dressed, in one of Mortimer's shirts. Mortimer either doesn't notice, or doesn't care. He climbs on to the bed, and lies down on his stomach, so that his tail has freedom of movement. “I have never actually been to the cinema.” He says. “How will I go?” 

“Hm?” Mortimer says, looking up from the crucifix. “Oh, right, that. Got a present for you.”

“A present?” Kurt perks up, rolling over so he can sit up, as Mortimer sits beside him. He's got something in his hand, and when he holds it out, Kurt sees it's a watch. Mortimer puts it on him, adjusting the strap, then twists something on the side. 

When he does, Kurt can't breathe from the shock of it. 

His skin is normal. 

“Oh,” He exhales, turning his hand over and over. Even his fingers look normal now, four instead of two. He spreads his hand, and watches as the new fingers follow the movement, two to each one of his. 

He stands on unsteady feet, and looks in the mirror above the dresser in awe. 

His skin is pale white now, his golden eyes brown. All of his markings are gone, yet he can still feel them under his fingertips. 

He can't tear his eyes away from the image, tilting his head this way and that, watching as the face in the mirror follows. It is his face still, he sees, still his nose and mouth and chin. But different. So different. 

“How?” He asks, turning away, back to Mortimer. The man hasn't moved. He's sitting on the bed, elbows on knees, fingers knit together. His face is, for once, very serious, somber even, but not angry. He seems sad, actually, but Kurt doesn't know why. 

“The watch makes a projection around you. Anywhere there's skin exposed, it automatically shields it under the image. Makes you look like a human.”

“I look normal.” Kurt's chest hurts in his joy, and he can't decide what he wants to do first; launch himself at Mortimer, or run around outside. A little of both. No, a lot of both. So much of both. 

“You _are_ normal.” Mortimer snaps, and _there_ is some anger, lurking just below the surface. “There's nothing wrong with how you look. I just,” He sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. “I just wanted to make things a little easier for you.” 

Kurt turns off the device, and it almost feels good to see his own skin, his markings. He's fascinated by the device, wants to play with it, but he gets the impression Mortimer wants him to look like himself. Gently, he runs his fingers through Mortimer's hair, pushing the mohawk back up into proper spikes, smoothing down the sides. Then he cups his face and kisses him, softly, a thank you. 

“We are just as we should be.” Kurt says, searching for the right words, the ones that will tell Mortimer he understands the sadness and the anger. “But you have given me a gift that will see me through to when others realize that as well.” This might in fact be the greatest gift Kurt's ever received. 

“Yeah?” Mortimer asks, holding out his arms a little, like he's afraid to ask for affection. Puzzled, Kurt crawls into his lap, wrapping his arms around Mortimer's neck. “That's what I was trying to do. Didn't want you to think I'm lying, saying I like you,” His black eyes are almost bottomless seeming in this dim light, and Kurt can't believe how fond he is of him already, how happy it makes him to see these eyes. “I love the way you look. There's no one else like you.”

“Or you,” Kurt says. 

“Yeah.” He says, but the strange mood won't lift. Kurt's not sure what's wrong, exactly, so he says nothing, for fear of making it worse somehow. “Yeah, no one looks like me, do they? Good thing, innit?” The last word rolls, and Kurt wrinkles his nose, thinking, and realizes he said 'isn't it'. 

Then he has to think about Mortimer's words though, and the weariness in them, the implication. 

“I like the way you look.” Kurt says, because he thinks that might be what Mortimer needs to hear. “I thought you did too. All your talk about us being normal.” 

Mortimer looks away, his face oddly young and defensive. 

“I can talk all I want.” Mortimer says, his accent still thick. “Don't make me less of a freak.” 

Kurt really doesn't like the way he says the word. It's like it hurts him. 

“You have green hair.” Kurt chides. “That doesn't make you a freak. It makes you unique. Just like your eyes, your tongue. The way you can move.” He smiles at him, his fangs showing. “You are much more human looking than me. Am I freak?”

“No, dove,” Mortimer says, his hands following Kurt's ribs. “You're perfect.” 

“I like hearing that,” Kurt says, and laughs when Mortimer suddenly flips them, wrapping his legs around Mortimer's waist happily. 

“Difference between you and me is, people like you. No one likes toads.” 

“No one likes blue demons either.” Kurt reminds him, as Mortimer presses a row of kisses down his neck. “Except you.” 

Mortimer sighs, and lets go, climbing off Kurt. He rubs the back of his neck as he walks to the dresser, and Kurt watches, fascinated by the stretch and slide of his numerous tattoos. They're so beautiful, a masterpiece. Even his aunt, with all her loveliness, would envy his pieces. The intricate machinery and the impressive detail in the flowers, all of it comes together to fit.

He gets off the bed, and creeps over, surprising him when he presses up against Mortimer's back for a minute. He pulls away quickly, and studies the art again, finding the little clockwork frog on its petal. He traces it gently, Mortimer holding still for him as he does it. 

“I've got to get dressed, dove.” He says, and Kurt frowns, before backing off. 

“You should never wear a shirt.” He says forlornly. “I love seeing your tattoos.” Mortimer chuckles at him, pulling a shirt out of his dresser, a grey button up. He rolls the sleeves halfway up his forearms, and Kurt sees the scars. 

So does Mortimer. He knows because he can see the way his dark eyes harden in the mirror, before he starts to pull the sleeves back down. 

“Scars do not mean you are weak.” Kurt says, quietly, and steps beside him, stopping him. He straightens the cuff where Mortimer's bent it, smooths it down. “You like having your arms bare.” He thinks he might be right just from the way Mortimer so quickly rolled the cuffs. The movement had been habitual, instinctive. 

“How do you do that?” Mortimer asks, his eyebrow quirked. “Figure things out about people?”

“You are easy enough.” Kurt replies, smiling, as he follows the scars with his fingers. “You are very expressive, you know.” He presses one thick finger against the smooth skin of one of the scars, gently. “Scars are like stories, maps. The same way a tattoo is. Every one has meaning, defines some moment in your life, whether it is good or bad. Just because you do not like the story, does not make it worthless.” He kisses Mortimer's cheek. “To me, these are a part of you. They are sad, yes, but they made you the man you are now. I like that man. You and I, we have been through awful things, and it helps us understand one another in ways no one else can. They help us fit, the same way mine do.”

Mortimer looks at him for a long moment, his eyes intense, and unreadable. Kurt has no idea whether or not he's said the right thing, whether or not Mortimer cares if Kurt likes this version of him. Maybe he liked who he was before better, maybe he hates what he is now. 

But he just shrugs, after he's stared at Kurt long enough for Kurt to start to feel self-conscious.

“Fair enough.” He says, and leaves it at that.

Kurt's a little amazed at that, as Mortimer turns away to adjust his hair, smoothing down the sides and fluffing up the middle. Did his opinion mean that much to Mortimer? 

“Here,” Mortimer says, taking his wrist. He does something to the watch, adjusts something, and he suddenly has shoes. Curious, he moves his feet, the floor still cool under him, and the trainers move, fabric bending, laces brushing the floor. Like they're real. When he crouches to touch though, his fingers pass right through. Fascinating. 

Kurt turns the first dial, and he looks like a human again. Grinning at himself in the mirror, he turns himself back. It's so interesting, really, to see what he would look like, were he human. He changes himself back and forth a few times, studying his brown eyes, pale skin. 

He sees Mortimer watching him with an amused look. 

“What do you think being human would be like?” He asks, curious as to what Mortimer thinks. Like Kurt, he's built so differently, that to be human would be more than a cosmetic difference. To not be able to move like he does, to not be able to teleport, how odd would that be? 

“Like being suffocated.” Mortimer replies, as he laces his boots. 

Kurt's inclined to agree, but at the same time, he's enthralled with the difference. 

“Do you like that face better?” Mortimer asks, and Kurt turns to him, studies him before he answers. Mortimer's got his elbows on his knees, his fingers knit together, shoulders drawn in a tight line. He's looking at Kurt though, his eyes hot and dark, like a pair of lit coals. It puts a shiver down Kurt's spine.

“I like the idea of blending in.” Kurt says, turning it off. “But I am long past bemoaning the face God gave me. I am too old for it.” At the thought, he tips his head in question. “When is your birthday? Didn't you say you were turning twenty-seven soon?” 

“Next month.” 

Kurt rolls his eyes.

“An exact date would be helpful.” He says, smiling. “We could do something.” 

“My birthday isn't that important to me.” Mortimer replies, putting Kurt off. 

Kurt spies his wallet sitting on the nightstand, and dives on it before Mortimer can stop him, and opens it, right as Mortimer grabs him around his middle, attempting to stop him. 

“Love, you mind your own,” He warns, trying to reach it. Kurt uses his hands to keep Mortimer's away, and holds it over his face with his tail. When he sees what Mortimer is hiding, he can't help the peal of laughter. He lets Mortimer take it, still laughing, and Mortimer huffs as he tucks it in his back pocket. 

“Your birthday is Valentine's Day!” He declares, deeply amused by the idea. “That is wonderful,” 

Mortimer covers his mouth with his hand, frowning down at him. 

“You keep that to yourself, yeah?” He's sulking as he gets off Kurt, and Kurt chuckles again. “I mean it, don't be telling no one about that. I get enough shit from people, I don't need them making it out to be a thing.” 

Kurt nods happily, and gets to his feet. 

“Do we have time to get a beer first?” Kurt asks, but Mortimer shakes his head. 

“After, we can.” He promises, as he heads out into the hallway, towards the entrance. He pulls a coat off the hook, black wool, and hands it to Kurt. “Yours is soaked. I don't wear this one anymore anyway.” 

As he turns away to put on his grey one, Kurt pulls the collar up, inhaling. Cigarettes and cologne, plus that odd underlying scent that's always on Mortimer's skin, that smell that's almost like water. 

“Come on, dove.” He says, without looking back, and Kurt follows, turning the dial on the watch. “Let's go, before the good shows sell out.” 

Kurt bounces on his toes eagerly, as they head outside, down to the motorcycle. The sleet has changed back to rain, thankfully, but it's still cold, and he worries. 

All his worry changes to unbridled glee when they get to the cinema, and he can't help the way he clings to Mortimer's arm. He's just thrilled to be out, to be around all these people, and no one gives him a second glance. Well, some do, their eyes curious as they study the way their arms are linked, but for the most part, those ones look away rather quickly. 

One man's eyes are sharp, as he glares at them from the next ticket line. Kurt doesn't like that, and he nestles further into Mortimer's space. Mortimer looks at him, then over at where he's looking, at the man.

“Problem?” He asks, his accent hard. 

“Freak.” The man mutters, and Mortimer smirks. 

“Well-spotted.” He replies. “Figure that one out all by yourself?” His smirk turns cold, brittle. “Look at you, then. Bet you can't even tie your own laces, not that you could, fat as you are. That requires two brain cells to rub together, a qualification you are sorely lacking, from the look of you.” 

“Least I'm human.” The man replies, and Mortimer's smirk turns into a vicious smile, one that Kurt has to look away from, because it frightens him. 

“Mate, do you know what the Latin for humans is? _Homo sapien_.” He says loftily. “Know what the one for mutants is? _Homo superior_. As in, 'better than'. Bragging about being human is like bragging about being a Neanderthal when the Cro-Magnons have already wiped them out.” 

The man silences, but still glares. Mortimer glares right back, and the man looks away at last. 

“Bastard.” Mortimer mutters, as the person in front of them finishes. Mortimer buys two tickets before Kurt can even offer to pay, but he's glad for it. He's not sure what he's supposed to say to the boy behind the window. 

Kurt waits, until they're mostly alone in the lobby, no one paying attention to them now. 

“You don't need to pick a fight with everyone who looks at you wrong.” He cautions. 

“I don't care how he looks at me, I care about how he looks at you.” Mortimer says, still obviously furious. “The only reason that bastard opened his gob was because he saw you on my arm like that.” He huffs. “Just once, I'd like to show them all why they shouldn't fuck with me, with mine. I'm so bloody tired of pretending I'm alright with being looked at like that, talked down to. I'm _not_. They got no right.” 

Kurt listens sadly, and rests his head on Mortimer's shoulder as they walk. 

“Do not be angry tonight, please.” Kurt says. “I want to be happy tonight, not think of these problems.” He looks at him, and feels hopeful when he sees the conflicted look on Mortimer's face.

“Alright,” Mortimer agrees, albeit reluctantly. He doesn't say anything else until they sit, Kurt folding himself up so that his knees are to his chest, ankles crossed. He wants to let his tail out, not exactly comfortable with it wrapped around his waist, but it would be just his luck to be spotted by one of these people in the dark of the theater. 

Mortimer puts his boots up on the seat in front of him, slouching, as the trailers start. It's just like the DVDs at home, only louder, much louder, and it takes the whole run of them before he can adjust to the volume. 

The film starts, a silly action flick with little plot, but fun, all the same, or so Kurt thinks. 

The main villain has a sidekick, a thug, And he's a mutant, or rather, supposed to be. He's more what they seem to show mutants as in nightmares, a caricature, and he feels how Mortimer tenses, as it goes on, and on, and when the word 'mutie' gets thrown around, Kurt's heard enough. He tugs on Mortimer's sleeve, and Mortimer practically springs to his feet, Kurt beside him. Before they leave though, Mortimer stops, turns, and spits, towards the room with the projector. 

This is part of his mutation, Kurt knows, because whatever it is he spits takes out the light up there, knocks away the images on the screen. The people complain, start yelling, as they leave undetected, Mortimer a hard line of anger ahead of him. He doesn't manage to catch him until they're outside, where he slips his hand through Mortimer's arm again, grabbing on to him hard, stilling him. 

“Fuck them,” His voice shakes as he turns to Kurt. “How do you stand them, how can you be how you are when they're like that? When they see us like that?” 

“Shh,” Kurt soothes, releasing his arm to cup Mortimer's face, pulling him close, so that their foreheads touch. “Do not let their ugliness hurt you, twist you into exactly what they fear.” 

Mortimer doesn't meet his eyes, but he doesn't pull away. 

“Come on,” Kurt says, releasing his face to tug on Mortimer's arm. “Let's go, yes? Let's go back to the flat, please?” Mortimer won't move though, so Kurt comes into his space, smiling, even if he still feels sick from the film. “I still haven't thanked you for my present, have I? Let me thank you,” 

Mortimer's still tense and angry, and possibly on the cusp of real violence, Kurt thinks, if anyone else pushes him tonight. So Kurt won't push, he decides, just give. 

He kisses him, standing straight to do it, and hopes it's enough of a lure to entice Mortimer back to the apartment, back to bed, where Kurt can ease away the lines around his mouth, the hardness in his eyes. 

Mortimer starts towards the bike, and Kurt breathes out a sigh of relief. 

At the apartment, he takes the watch off, so that he's his normal blue, and lets his tail out. He unbuttons Mortimer's shirt, but only gets halfway down before Mortimer stops him. 

“I just wanted to make you happy,” Mortimer says, sounding miserable. “That wasn't supposed to happen. I shouldn't have lost my temper.” 

“We can try again some other night,” Kurt replies, with a shrug. “Until then,” He undoes another button. 

“Until then.” Mortimer agrees.

Kurt's proud of how quickly he's picked up the skills involved in sex, how easy it is with Mortimer. It's not terribly different from how it was before, with women. Mortimer likes when Kurt runs the spade of his tail down his spine, when he presses his fingers against his stomach. 

Mortimer suddenly picks him up, hands under his thighs, and pushes him up against the wall. Kurt holds on, going along with it, because really, what's a wall to the two of them? He's thought about this before, but with his previous relationships, things had never been comfortable like they are between Mortimer and him, never enough at ease he had been able to ask. 

“You want to?” Mortimer asks, his hips pressing forward so Kurt can feel how hard he is. “Like this?” 

Kurt nods, but wiggles out of his grip, so he can get his trousers off. He wants to be naked for this, wants to be as intimate as possible. Mortimer wrestles him back up against the wall, Kurt only playing at resisting, smiling the whole time, and when he feels Mortimer's hand around him, he locks his legs tight, laughs. 

“Christ, I like you,” Mortimer says, into his collarbone, and Kurt grins as he rakes his hands through his hair. 

_Give me time,_ he thinks, _And I will love you._

The thought should terrify, and maybe it will, later, but for right now, in between the wall and Mortimer's chest, he can only laugh. 

-

Nothing gets rid of a headache like sex, Mortimer thinks. The empath had done a number on him, enough that the migraine he'd gotten had lingered around the edges for the past few days, alternatively annoying him, and making him sick. He'd been better by this morning, but the stress of that bastard at the cinema and the film itself has brought the pain back with a vengeance. 

Even now, he still has the ache at his temples and the back of his neck. Fuck, he thinks, taking a drag of his cigarette, he's not really having a good week. Even the satisfaction of having Kurt back for a few days isn't enough to take away the stress. 

He doesn't need this shit, it's just that simple. He doesn't need to be breaking into SHIELD, he doesn't need Wanda on his arse about whatever it is he's done to piss her off this time, he doesn't need to think about the boys in Fury's reach, and he really, really doesn't need to think about the game Trask is playing. All he wants is to spend the next few days in his nice soft bed with the shades pulled and Kurt's warmth pressed to him. 

He rubs his eyes and taps the ash off the end of his cigarette. Kurt sleeps like the dead, and he'd managed to get out of bed to smoke without bothering him. Would never work the other way around, he thinks, so he's lucky really, that Kurt's not a smoker. He wakes at the slightest sound now, ever since the place.

Fuck, what is he going to do about Wanda? What is she doing with SHIELD? He just can't work it out in his head. She hadn't used any of their codes, had given no indication she was in any kind of trouble, or was being held against her will. So what's she playing at? What does she want from him? He doesn't understand, not at all. The stupid whore is giving him even more of a headache. He's not good with complicated shit like this, can never tell who is or isn't lying, or what anyone's motives are. He's good with machines. People are too messy. 

She cares about him, he knows. Loves him, even. 

Most people hate him, really, or tolerate him. He knows that. He's alright with it. He probably wouldn't like himself very much either. Wanda and him had hated each other from the start, when she went and got her hands all over his stuff, dirtying it up. He hates it when people touch his stuff. Being hexbolted into a wall after he called her whatever he'd called her that time had not helped their budding relationship. 

But after that deal they'd made, well. Things changed, didn't they? His mum and dad had gone and gotten all attached to the boys, and they'd grown on him after they started getting more interesting, and after a bit, Wanda stopped chucking things at him when he called her a cow. Now he just got hit with a spoon, or maybe just a little hexbolt, enough to sting. And maybe she fed him a bit, and fixed his hair, and maybe she fussed over his smoking a bit more than necessary. It's more than most would ever do for him. 

And maybe he's a bit fond of her. 

He likes the boys better. Tommy and Billy are good fun, better than a lot of adults. Tommy loves wushu as much as him, and Billy likes the staff. He can spend hours teaching them, and getting to justify whacking them with a stick as training is only part of it. 

The boys are under Fury's eyes. Or rather, eye. Hah. 

They're not safe. They'll never be safe here. Wanda and Victor need to take them home to Scotland, where they're all safe, and well out of harm's way. He doesn't need to think about them in SHIELD, bloody fucking SHIELD that sends agents into war zones, where Wanda could get killed. 

Fuck. Fucking Christ, he can't do this. He just can't. 

He needs stop this, all of this. Kurt should be kept well out of this, as far away from him as possible. Doesn't matter what Mortimer feels, how good Kurt makes him feel. He's putting Kurt in danger, putting himself in more. The X-Freaks aren't stupid, and eventually, they'll find out. He'll never be able to convince anyone that he's not using Kurt for information, that he actually...

Fuck.

He wants Kurt. He wants him so badly it hurts. When he's got Kurt beside him, something in his mind settles. He sleeps peacefully for the first time in a long time. He feels _happy_. 

He finishes his cigarette, and puts it out in the ashtray. He almost wants another, but he knows that's a bad idea. He needs to start cutting down before he gives himself cancer. Sauron says his accelerated healing and minor invulnerability is staving off the telltale smoker's cough and the breathing problems he should already have. But that benefit in his mutation won't keep the problems at bay forever. 

He closes the table holder with a reluctant sigh. He really does want another one, now that he's denied himself the option. 

Fuck.

It's too cold out here anyway. He needs to head in. 

He shucks his hoodie, pulled on over his bare chest, and throws it over the couch before stepping back into the bedroom. 

Kurt stands out like an ink blot on his sheets, still curled up peacefully on the bed. His tail is winding back and forth in his sleep, like a cat's will sometimes. Mortimer leans on the door frame and watches, for just a moment, feeling the oddest mix of guilt and affection in the pit of his gut. 

He's just so perfect. It's unfair, really. He's not strong, not really. He wants to keep Kurt, steal him away from the world. He could keep Kurt safe, better than those X-Freaks. Those bastards are always attracting attention, and trouble. That's not what Kurt needs.

For the first time in his life as a Brotherhood member, he thinks about the future. 

What does he want? 

He's always assumed that if he lives through the war, he'll go home to Scotland, live near his parents, and Wanda and the boys. He's never really believed he'll live through it, he guesses, or that it will ever end. It's been going on so long, and things are just now heating up for real. 

It's a nice thought though, isn't it? A house on the street, Kurt going to church with his mum, dinners with the boys. 

Stupid, he huffs, to have thoughts like that. He's a soldier, he doesn't get that option. He gave it up at seventeen. 

Kurt snuffles in his sleep, and curls up into a tighter ball before his eyes open, a slit of yellow in the darkness. His eyes glow like a cat's, as he blinks, his arm extending back, to where Mortimer's body should be. When he finds the empty space, he scans the room, and eventually lands on Mortimer. 

“ _You smoke too much_.” He mutters in German, his voice thick with sleep. He rises, sort of, on his elbow, and Mortimer watches how the shadows and light follow his marks, like rivers in the dark. 

“Yeah, I do.” Mortimer agrees, in English. He's not thinking clearly enough to switch to German. As good as Kurt claims his is, it's still not instinctive, not like English, not like French. “Character flaw, that.” 

“I can't understand you.” Kurt says, laying his head back down on the pillow. “Your accent.” 

He must really be stressed for it to be rolling so thick that it's nonsense to Kurt. 

“Sorry, dove.” He replies, and hates himself a little more for the pet name, because that one is honest, is from somewhere inside he can't let to the surface. Kurt is a dove, really. Peaceful, pure. Beautiful. Fuck, what is he doing? 

“Come back to bed.” Kurt orders, his eyes sliding shut. “You're cold, aren't you?”

“Yeah.” Colder than he could explain. 

“Let me warm you up.” Kurt offers, turning over on to his back, his eyes opening again, just a sliver of light in his dark face. 

“Alright.” Mortimer says, and goes to him, crawling into the bed. 

Kurt pulls him close, so that his head rests on Kurt's chest, Kurt's arms coming up around his shoulders. He's ice cold, he knows, and it must be similar to holding an ice pack. Kurt, on the other hand, is running as hot as a furnace. He feels fantastic, and Mortimer can't help but bury his face into the softness of him, the marks on his chest rubbing against his face as he does it. 

“My head hurts.” He says, and doesn't know why. He doesn't know what he expects Kurt to do about it. 

Kurt sits up, sliding out from under him, and helps Mortimer re-settle, so that his head is in Kurt's lap, Kurt's legs crossed tailor-style. Then his fingers come to Mortimer's temples, rubbing his fingers in slow circles that feel like heaven. 

“Here?” He asks. 

“'M.” Mortimer manages, and Kurt softly laughs. “Back of m' neck too.” He feels the spade of Kurt's tail press in there, almost painfully, but then it finds the knot of tension, and it feels so good it hurts. He groans appreciatively as the pain bleeds out, his fingers gripping Kurt's ankle. 

“Too much stress.” Kurt clucks. “Relax. You are with me.”

“Mm.” Mortimer agrees, as he bends around Kurt. “I am.” 

Kurt keeps rubbing his head until the tension is gone, Mortimer's gratitude indescribable. No one's ever done this for him, and it feels so good. He can't believe he never even thought to ask. 

“Acrobats get headaches, muscle aches.” Kurt says, quietly, sounding amused. “All the movement. After a show, my head would be in so much pain. Everyone learns how to do this, take care of each other.” 

“Hm.” Mortimer hums, then groans again as Kurt's tail finds another ball of tension right at the base of his skull. “Right there, 's good.” 

“I gathered.” Kurt replies, teasing. “Better?”

“Bit, yeah,” He mutters. Truthfully, he feels loads better already, the tension easing out of his shoulders and neck. His head feels almost normal. There's still a touch of pain there, but it's just an echo of the previous ache. 

“Do you think your friends will like me?” Kurt asks, and Mortimer chuckles. 

“Dove, I doubt there's anyone who dislikes you.” He replies. “You'll be fine.” 

He sits up and pushes Kurt down on to his back, an elbow on either side of him as he kisses him. 

“Want to try something new?” He asks, between kisses. His cock is interested now that his headache has been eased, and really, Kurt's right here. 

“Alright,” Kurt agrees, his eyes fully awake now. 

“Right then.” Mortimer says, happy. He climbs off Kurt and rummages in the drawer beside the bed, until he finds the lube. Kurt watches him with half-lidded eyes, stretching his arms up above his head before crossing them under the pillow. 

He starts to rub the stuff between Kurt's thighs, and Kurt grins, fangs showing.

“I know this.” He says. “I have done this before. Though I was not the one with the oil on my thighs then.” 

Mortimer supposes that makes sense. Girl wouldn't want to be getting herself up the spout, and much as Mortimer hates to even think it, they especially probably wouldn't want to risk Kurt's child. Stupid humans. 

“You want to do me instead?” He asks. He doesn't mind. One is as good as the other, in his experience. 

“No,” Kurt says, shaking his head. “I want to know what it feels like.” 

Mortimer shrugs.

“Works for me. I like being on top.” 

“Surprise, surprise,” Kurt drawls, with a smile, and Mortimer just has to kiss him, just for a second. 

Kurt crosses his legs at the ankle, and presses his now slick thighs together, while his mischievous, clever, wonderful tail wraps around Mortimer's dick and _strokes_. 

“Come on,” He cajoles, like Mortimer can think at a time like this. 

Kurt releases him though, so Mortimer can do just that, thrusting in with relish. He feels fantastic, the warmth and slickness of his thighs exactly what he needs to rid himself of the lingering edges of the headache. He supposes that's what happens when all the blood goes south, which Kurt is so very good at with him. 

“Jesus Christ,” He swears, thrusting in hard again, and again, Kurt exactly right. No one should be this warm, really. It's not fair. And no one should moan his name like _that_ , because that's not doing a damn thing for his self-control. 

He only needs a few minutes, and then he's coming all over Kurt's thighs and the sheets. He takes a second to catch his breath, then makes his way down Kurt's chest, to his cock, and takes him in his mouth. Kurt hisses above him, his fingers in Mortimer's hair, pulling. 

He wraps his tongue around Kurt, careful about how he does it. He has a lot of control over this muscle, more than any human, but it's not exact. He has to concentrate, keep it tight enough to give Kurt what he needs, but loose enough he won't hurt him by mistake. Thankfully, he's had a lot of experience in this area.

He works his tongue up and down, then drags it up, and around the foreskin. Gently, he uses the tip to play with it, wrapping his hand around the now exposed root. His spit works well enough as lubricant right now, even if it's not his first choice. 

Kurt's gasping, and then he suddenly breathes Mortimer's name, right as Mortimer takes the head into his mouth fully. The way he says it makes Mortimer double his efforts, and just like that, Kurt comes.

Mortimer swallows, because he's had worse things in his mouth and it's rude to just spit it out. Also, he has enough come on the sheets for the time being. It'll be dry in a tick, but still. 

He kisses Kurt's hip, then his stomach, then the marks that loop around his right pectoral, circling in to his nipple. It's so dark, it's almost black, but still blue. Kurt giggles, ticklish like before, and Mortimer lets go, run his lips up in soft kisses until he reaches Kurt's mouth, Kurt ducking to meet him. 

Kurt pushes him off after a minute, and heads into the bathroom, where the water runs. Mortimer closes his eyes, tired now, truly so. It's just gone one, and he'll be up in about five or six hours to train. He needs to run tomorrow, on the trail, before he does his forms.

He falls asleep to Kurt sliding into bed with him, thinking of _taolu_ , and the feel of his staff in his hands.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mortimer trains, and he and Kurt behave in a sickeningly domestic way. Meanwhile, Wanda is forced to explain herself to Agent Hill, and finds not everyone actually gives a damn about her friends. (Shocking when the world doesn't revolve around you, isn't it?) And Kurt? Kurt eats coca-cola bottle gummies, and holds his boyfriend's hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N It should be noted that this was written entirely while listening to the Flogging Molly album, _Speed of Darkness_ , and it should also be noted that _Oliver Boy (All of Our Boys)_ and _A Prayer for Me in Silence_ (tracks 10 and 11 respectively) are both brilliant. You should listen to them both, if nothing else on that album. Also, I was watching a lot of _Skins_ on Netflix. I wanted to see what all the fuss was about. I don't know, maybe I'm remembering all those years wrong, but I'm rather sure we were doing all that. Don't know why everyone was acting so shocked.
> 
> Oh. And I graduated. That's why this took so long. Damn final exams and all that. So I'm now qualified to look at a stream bed and go, "Yes. That is a very degraded stream bed."

The next morning, he runs the five kilometer trail until he hits water. The river is dangerous today, sheets of broken ice floating by. No way he can keep his body temperature at a safe level in that. He's using gel packs in his shoes and gloves just to stay out of stasis out here on dry land. 

Sometimes, being an ectotherm is more trouble than it's worth. 

“Fuck.” He swears, raking his fingers through his hair. He really had wanted a swim. 

He turns back towards the trail, but leaves it after a second, heading into the woods for a harder run, to make up for the lack of swimming. He figures he'll add in some forms as well, afterward. He's starting to slack with his right side again, a nasty habit that's going to get him hurt if he doesn't correct it. 

By the time he finishes his run, his body is good and loose, ready to start.

Only Kurt is waiting at the pavilion. He has two coats on, one of Mortimer's hoodies with the hood up, and the black wool over it, legs drawn up to his chest, hands in the sleeves. Mortimer can just barely see his face. 

“What are you doing down here, love?” He asks, picking up his staff from he'd placed it when he came down. “It's early yet.” 

“I wanted to watch you.” Kurt says, smiling. He angles his head a little, and Mortimer realizes he's after a kiss. He gives him one, then backs off, twirling his staff effortlessly. It really is easy, at this point, to move it through his fingers, over his wrist. 

He turns away, and begins, his body going through the movements like clockwork. He knows this, can feel it in every muscle now. 

“You're like an acrobat.” Kurt sounds impressed, so Mortimer stops, turning back to him, still twirling the staff. There's really nothing impressive about it, in his opinion. And he's not sure what Kurt means, exactly. “The way you move. It's like an acrobat.” 

“Is it then?” Mortimer asks, curious. “I can juggle too. Taught myself in uni.” He's pleased with the skill, stupid as it is. It had taken him three weeks to learn.

“I can breathe fire.” Kurt replies, and Mortimer raises his eyebrows, now the impressed one. “I was not a quick study, I admit, but I did get it right eventually. It was very good, for the show. Very impressive for the demon to breathe fire and brimstone.” He grins, obviously pleased with himself. 

“Very frightening, I'm sure.” Mortimer's not sure Kurt can ever be frightening, and it shows in the dryness of his tone. Still, it is a neat trick. “You should teach me.” He likes the idea of being able to do such a thing.

“Speaking of which, you promised me some lessons.” Kurt reminds him, with a smile. Mortimer nods, remembering that promise. He should have known Kurt would hold him to it.

“Yeah, well, let me finish here,” Mortimer says, striking out with the staff again, but in a puff of smoke, the weight changes, Kurt now perched at the end. Mortimer's strong enough to hold him up with only the slightest fumble, and he frowns, a little annoyed. “Love, I need to practice.” He says, more firmly. 

“Do you want a partner?” Kurt asks, tipping his head to the side, as his tail curls up over him. 

Mortimer thinks, then grins at the idea, the pang of annoyance gone. 

“What do I get if I win?” He's already got a few ideas he'd like to try.

“Hm,” Kurt appears to mull it over with an exaggerated thoughtfulness. Then he creeps down the staff, one hand in front of the other, until he's right in Mortimer's face. 

He appreciates his strength right now, appreciates Kurt's balance, loves every bit of the two of them, because it means they can play these games, can interact like this.

“What do I get then, dove?” He asks again, lower, more focused, because really, the ideas he has about Kurt are many, and he's eager to try every one at least once.

“Whatever you want,” Kurt promises, his eyes on Mortimer's mouth.

“Don't make promises you can't keep, love,” Mortimer warns, with a leer, before he steals a kiss.

“I would never.” Kurt replies, almost smug, before he disappears, nothing but smoke left. 

It throws Mortimer off balance, the sudden loss of weight, but then he hears the 'bamf' noise that accompanies Kurt's teleportation from right behind him. He doesn't fight the way his body is falling forward now, choosing to control it into a roll, so he's back on his feet, staff out, just in time to see Kurt disappear again, and reappear, mid-air beside him.

His movements are strange, to the well-trained Mortimer. The styles Mystique taught him, wushu and krav maga, and the boxing he's been doing since childhood, are all highly-disciplined, full of rules and forms. Kurt, on the other hand, fights like, well, like an acrobat, he thinks. His kicks are actually half-executed tumbles, or cartwheels done from one location to the next. His tail is deadlier, in any case, sharp and direct, snapping at Mortimer like a snake from one spot to the next.

It's like fighting a shadow, really. Mortimer can't keep up, can't touch him, and that, more than anything, is extremely frustrating for him. He's quick, clever, but while Kurt may be somewhat less clever, or rather, less likely to think of how to hurt someone, he's much quicker. 

Kurt is suddenly on his back, his toes on his hips, hands on his shoulders, mouth by his ear, and Mortimer can hear the grin. 

“Too slow,” He mocks, as Mortimer grabs him by the arm to throw him. He's holding nothing but smoke before he can even break the grip. 

Kurt needs to see to teleport, he reminds himself. So he has to take away Kurt's sight again. How? He needs Kurt close, so that means he has to lure him in. 

He waits until Kurt is arrogant enough to teleport close again, then grabs his tail, twisting it hard in his hand, just enough to sting, just enough to get his back to Mortimer's chest, so Mortimer can cover his eyes.

“Got you,” He crows, pleased with himself, and with Kurt as well. He's actually breathing hard, with sweat on his skin. No one's given him a workout like this in a long time. He wonders what it would be like to fight Kurt at full-strength, without Kurt's reluctance to hurt, without his own reluctance to hurt Kurt. They would be a real challenge for one another then, wouldn't they?

“That will not work twice,” Kurt says, and just like that, he's gone. Shocked, Mortimer looks around, too late to realize Kurt is too clever by half, and has teleported _above_ him, in the open air.

He lands on Mortimer, and it's just surprising enough to take him down, for Kurt to get his tail around Mortimer's throat. It's loose, just a joke, but really, he's impressed. No one's ever managed that before. 

“I win,” Kurt declares smugly, from above him. “And you did not have to grab my tail like that.” It's said with a bit of a grumble, and Mortimer smirks before pressing a quick kiss to the loosening appendage.

“Better?” He mocks, as Kurt climbs off him. He jumps to his own two feet and stands straight, still smirking. Kurt looks less than amused, but Mortimer's pretty sure the petulance is mostly an act. Either way, he can make up for it. “Want to lay that claim now?”

“Later,” Kurt says lightly, pulling the hood back up. “I will meet you upstairs when you are done.” 

“This won't be something stupid, will it?” Mortimer asks, just a little anxious, and Kurt grins, before he disappears, reappearing up five stories, perched on the balcony. He slips out of view, into the apartment, Mortimer's eyes on him the whole time, following his form greedily. 

Well, whatever he wants, it's sure to be fun. Kurt obviously likes sex as much as he does. 

Back to practice then.

The morning sun still isn't too high in the sky, light still peeking its head over the treeline, so he has time before he needs to get inside. It's looking to be bright, and there's still snow on the ground. He can't risk the headache, and he'll be half-blind anyway without something over his eyes. 

He starts with basic forms, the ones he learned first, simple movements his body knows well by now, and slowly advances up to the more complicated ones. His movements are sharp, precise. He loves this more than anything, this feeling of control over his body, when he spent so many years stumbling over his own feet. It hadn't been easy, figuring out how to walk like a man, hold his shoulders back, when what his spine wanted to do was curl, crouch. 

He switches from forms to jabs, just like his dad had taught him all those years ago. A boxer's stance is so easy for him, a natural movement. 

When the sun starts to hit his shoulders, he eases up, letting his body cool down before he stretches. He picks up his staff, shoulders it, and heads inside. 

He still feels wound up, but he supposes he'll have to wait until he and Kurt are headed home from Liam's, for that promised race. That'll be a real run, the kind that keeps creative movement in his muscles and not his brain. Got to move by instinct in a fight. Those two seconds of thought are long enough to get a bullet right in the skull, and he's avoided that long enough that he's not keen to break the habit. 

In his flat, Kurt is sitting on the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee in his hands. 

“Hello,” He says, pulling his shirt off before caging him in. This close, he can smell the water and soap on Kurt's skin. He's showered then. 

“Is your energy part of your mutation?” Kurt asks, throwing Mortimer off a bit. It's being asked with genuine curiousity, not flirtation, so he tries to think.

“What do you mean?” 

“You train your body hard, like I did in the circus, like I still do. But I am exhausted after training, as are most. You, on the other hand, you are not. How?” Kurt is still holding his coffee, and the steam of it hits Mortimer's skin, reminds him he's a little colder than he likes. 

“I never thought about it.” He answers honestly. Sauron claims his metabolism is remarkably fast, but he's not sure how all that relates to each other. He was shit at biology. “Maybe.” 

Kurt still looks genuinely interested in the idea, and Mortimer likes his interest, but really, he wants it to be on what they could be doing, not this. 

“You were promised a prize, love.” He reminds him, eager. Kurt laughs, and sets his coffee down, pulling him in with just his legs. “That's more like it. Now, what do you want?”

Kurt looks at him, then away, biting his lip. His tail is winding in tight circles by Mortimer's thigh, twisting and turning nervously. 

“Are you embarrassed?” He asks, amused at the idea. 

Kurt frowns, looking almost childish. It's kind of nice for it to be someone else for once, really. 

“When we,” Kurt pauses, won't meet his eyes. “When we...are together...”

“You mean when we have sex?” Mortimer suggests, just to see how Kurt's face darkens with a blush. “What about it?” 

“You never let me...” Kurt trails off again, looking very uncomfortable. “You don't let me do anything.”

Mortimer blinks in surprise. 

“Why didn't you just say something?” He asks, as Kurt's tail wraps around his thigh. “Love, I don't care how it happens, long as we get off. I'm not that complicated. What is it you're wanting to do?” He really means that too. He prefers being in control, yeah, but he doesn't mind if Kurt wants some for himself. He's not a doll, after all. 

“I want to...” Kurt bites his lip, looking reluctant. Mortimer wonders how he does that without bloodying his lip. Maybe he's done it so many times it's scarred in the spot, no more blood to bleed. “I have never done anything with a man, before you, you know that. But I want to try to...what you do for me...”

Oh, Mortimer thinks, getting it. 

“You want to blow me?” He offers slyly, and Kurt's so fucking shy, the way his cheeks flush at the words, it's actually a bit of a turn-on. Maybe it's selfish, but he kind of likes the idea of being the first for Kurt, of not being compared to anyone. Kind of likes the idea that Kurt likes him best. No one ever likes him best.

“I do not like how coarse English is with sex.” Kurt grumbles, and Mortimer laughs, leaning forward to press a line of kisses up Kurt's neck, to his ear, to that lovely little spot that makes him start in Mortimer's grasp. 

“German hasn't exactly got a leg to stand on, pet.” He reminds him. “You like the French better? How does that go? _Vous voulez me donner un turlute_. Sound a bit nicer?” In reality, he thinks, it's just as rough, but somehow, the French have made it so that even the word for whore rolls off the tongue like honey. Smart lot they are. 

“I forget,” Kurt says, sounding a little out of breath. “How do you say sex?” 

“ _Accouplement_ ,” Mortimer reminds him. “Or _coit_ , or _ça-va ça-vient_ ,” He says the last one with a grin, as Kurt frowns.

“Only the French would try to get away with that,” He says, looking like he wants to roll his eyes. Mortimer just smiles at him. “You are much more French than I am.” He doesn't say it like a compliment, but Mortimer just shrugs.

“I'm a Scot. Nothing else.” He refutes. 

“Doesn't that make you British?” Kurt asks. 

“I'm a _Scot_.” He says, dragging his fingers down Kurt's spine. “Just like you're a German. Germany is in your blood,” He wonders if that's a lie, really, but Kurt claims Germany as home, so it must be true. “Scotland is in mine.” 

“Then why are you here?” Kurt asks, and Mortimer's spine stiffens.

“Because I am.” He says, hoping Kurt will leave it alone. That question comes too close to his secrets for his comfort, and he doesn't want to have to lie to Kurt right before he fucks him. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “Can we argue about this later?” He pulls Kurt tight to him, so he can feel that Mortimer is already half-hard for him. “I'm dying here, sweetheart.”

“I wasn't aware we were arguing.” Kurt says, not giving in. He really has a better handle on his self-control than Mortimer can ever claim. “And I haven't decided yet what I want. I offered, that doesn't mean I've ruled out my other choices.” 

“Other choices?” Mortimer lets go and balances by pressing his palms against the counter. The thought of Kurt's mouth on his cock is a distraction from the conversation at hand, but he's curious too. “What else do you want from me?”

“Truth.” He answers. “Maybe tell me something true about you, that you have never told me.” He nods decisively. “Yes, that is what I want.” 

“I'm not sure what you want me to tell you.” Mortimer says, confused and uncomfortable with the idea. “I've told you everything interesting about me.” He lies, sort of. “What do you want to know?” 

Kurt hums a little, his tail winding, and then seems to arrive on one.

“Have you ever loved anyone?” Kurt asks, throwing Mortimer off. He's already uncomfortable enough that he's starting to soften, and this question is enough to make him look away, think. 

“No.” He answers, a bit uncertainly. “No, I guess I haven't. I don't like people very much, and they don't like me at all, generally. Liam was the longest relationship I ever had, and I never came close to loving him. I like machines. I understand them. They're not complicated in the way people are. I look at a machine, and understand it. Sometimes, it does me no good. But most of the time, being the man who can fix things makes me the most important man in the room.” He almost can't believe the words coming out of his mouth, can't believe he's laying this much of himself out in front of Kurt in the daylight. Christ, he's in trouble. “I can say I love them, love the way they work. But I've never loved like you're talking about. Never loved another man like that. Never even liked anyone enough.”

Kurt watches him throughout his strange, rambling speech, with patience that Mortimer can't believe, will never possess. 

“You like me.” Kurt says. 

“Yeah.” Mortimer admits. 

“Maybe you will love me.” It's a joke, but Mortimer's too absorbed in the softness of Kurt's eyes to hear it, and he always did have a problem with shutting his mouth before he got himself into trouble. 

“I could.” He says, before he can stop himself. 

Kurt draws back to gaze at him, and Mortimer can't hold it. He turns away from Kurt.

Kurt just leans forward though, and presses their foreheads together, though Mortimer continues to look away.

“Don't put too much expectation on me. You might grow bored with me in a few weeks or months, or I might tire of you. You never know.” He ducks down so that their eyes meet, and Mortimer can see how he grins. “For what it's worth though, I think I could love you too, one day.”

Something in his chest tightens unexplainably, and he feels even more awkward.

“Can we please forget the last two minutes?” He asks hopefully. “And go have sex?” 

Kurt just laughs, leaning back on the counter. 

“You are so single-minded,” He says, smiling and shaking his head. “Do you think sex solves everything?”

“I'm good at sex.” Mortimer replies. “Not so good at talking.” 

“You really aren't.” Kurt agrees, but he's grinning. “Did you know you don't blush? You're embarrassed, but you don't turn red, or anything.” He's observant to a fault, Mortimer thinks, and that is definitely going to get him in trouble further on down the line. 

“Something to do with my biology.” He says, with a shrug. “I'm just different. Like my eyes.”

Kurt frowns, running his thumbs over the corners of Mortimer's eyes. 

“What is different about your eyes?” 

“My mutation. There's something about my eyes, they don't dilate properly, you know, get bigger and smaller?”

Kurt frowns at him, tilting his head to the side, so Mortimer tries to explain.

“See, that black bit in the middle of your eye? Your pupil? It's how you see. Gets bigger when it's dark, gets smaller when it's light. Mine? Don't get small enough. Means the light is bright as fucking hell to me, and it hurts me bad. I can get around, but it'll give me a migraine.” 

“That is why you like the dark.” Kurt looks satisfied with this information, like he's putting all these pieces together until he'll eventually have the complete picture. 

“Yeah,” Mortimer says, smiling as he nuzzles Kurt's neck, breathing him in. He kisses him there, feels the delicious curl of Kurt's spine under his palm. “See, at night, I can see anything. That's where I'm king of the hill.”

“What a terrific king you would be,” Kurt teases him.

“Terrific,” Mortimer drawls, thinking aloud. “You know, that word really means 'to inspire terror'.'Terrible' works too though.” 

“I learned much of my English from the dictionary,” Kurt returns, grinning mischievously. “So yes, my great and terrible king, I know exactly what 'terrific', actually means,” 

Mortimer almost growls at him in mock-annoyance, biting at his neck in play that quickly turns serious, as Kurt's legs pull him in tighter, slot their hips together so that there's friction, as his cock hardens again against Kurt's. He can hear Kurt breathing, can feel it against his own chest as they move against each other, one of his own hands sliding down to cup Kurt's arse, push them closer. 

He gets control of himself again, halts, pulls back.

“Are you going to punish me for that, then?” Kurt asks, his breath still heavy. “I was only teasing,” 

He studies Kurt's eyes for a minute, for no other reason than because he wants to, just because he likes them. Likes the way he looks at him, like he's worth looking at. For someone like Kurt to think he's worth looking at means a lot.

Kurt's tail suddenly presses against his dick, through his trousers, and he leans in, gathers Kurt a little closer to him. For just a second, Kurt goes along with it, as Mortimer goes back to kissing his neck, his shoulder, fits them together again, Kurt's legs going back around his waist. 

But then Kurt's hands are on his chest, pushing him away. 

Confused, Mortimer frowns at him. He's pretty sure everything was going fine. They're both hard, so they're going to have sex on the counter. That adds up sensibly to him.

“You're doing it again!” Kurt looks annoyed with him.

Mortimer tries to think, but it's not very easy right at the moment.

“Going to have elaborate there,” He says, after a moment. 

Kurt cups his face in his hands, his expression determined. 

“Let me try,” He cajoles. “Let me try to do something for you.” He slides down off the counter, their legs tangling as Kurt's tail brushes the small of his back. Kurt stands straight, a rare occasion, keeping their hips together as he smiles. “Please?”

The please does it.

He lets himself be led back to the bedroom, where the bed is still a mess of covers and sheets, lets Kurt settle him there, back to the headboard, legs open. 

Kurt looks young, anxious, as he sits between Mortimer's legs. 

It occurs to Mortimer that Kurt _is_ young, and for all Mortimer thinks about sex with Kurt, which is often, Kurt really doesn't know what he's doing. 

“Breathe, dove,” He kisses Kurt softly, trying to be reassuring. 

There's a huff of laughter, and then Kurt leaves his mouth, starts kissing down, mimicking Mortimer's own actions from before. He reaches Mortimer's stomach, then lingers over his still-clothed erection, his breath warm through the fabric. Tenderly, he presses his lips to it, as his fingers work at the band on Mortimer's trackies and pants. Mortimer lifts his hips, helps him out, and gradually, Kurt gets them both off, leaving Mortimer naked. 

He comes back between Mortimer's legs, and bows his head. 

Mortimer waits.

He's rewarded when Kurt takes the head into his mouth, his tail wrapping around the base so he can balance himself with both arms. 

The feel of the tail is interesting, when Mortimer lingers on it, the texture smoother than the rest of Kurt's skin, the spade like soft, warm leather. Where leather would chafe though, this just feels good. Kurt has so much control over his extra appendage, that he's changing the pressure of it in waves, which feels bloody-fucking- _fantastic_.

He's not doing much with his mouth yet, but Mortimer's not too hung up on it, not with his tail doing that. 

But then his tongue, the texture noticeably different from the norm on such sensitive skin, pushes back the foreskin just a little, and he hisses, one hand raking through Kurt's hair. 

“Like that, sweetheart,” He encourages. 

Kurt does it again, bolder, and Mortimer's hand tightens in his hair. He loosens immediately though, for fear of hurting him, and strokes the scalp softly. He needs to be careful with Kurt, he reminds himself. This isn't like before, with all the others. Kurt is not them. He's barely experienced enough to know what he likes, not like the men who'd invited Mortimer to their beds specifically because of his strength, the ones who wanted someone to pin them, overpower them.

Kurt likes sweet, he's worked out, as he keeps stroking his scalp, careful, gentle. Creative, energetic, yes, but he likes affection and care with it. 

Kurt takes a bit more of Mortimer's cock into his mouth, running his tongue along the underside, before bringing it back up to the head. 

This combined with his tail is bringing Mortimer close pretty fast. 

“Might want to stop,” He warns, and Kurt actually obeys, taking his mouth away even as his tail carries on. 

“Why?” Kurt is the picture of innocent curiousity, despite how wet his mouth is, how his lips are turning a darker shade of blue. He shuts his brain down on that thread of thought before he embarrasses himself.

“'Cause I'm going to come soon, and I don't think you'd like that your first time.” Mortimer tells him, as he tips his head back against the headboard, so that he's not looking at Kurt. 

He surprised when Kurt's tongue touches the side again, and bites his lip to keep quiet. Still early, and he really doesn't need the cow next door to come around again. 

“I'll be careful.” Kurt's warm breath against Mortimer's cock is like a too-light scratch on an itch, before he curls his tongue around the bottom, just above where his tail is, and strokes upwards. 

It's enough to finish him off, and he groans as the relief runs down his spine like a lightning rod. Christ, it's been too long since someone's sucked his cock, too long since he's had any kind of sex. All a bit overwhelming. 

Kurt actually licks up some of the come that's hit Mortimer's stomach, making him curve away, startled by the scratch of it. 

“It's bitter.” He makes a face, and Mortimer laughs. “How do you swallow that?”

“You get used to it.” Mortimer's feeling languid now. “C'mere, let me take care of you now.”

Kurt comes up to him, his smile in the early-morning light causing some kind of feeling in his chest that scares him for how intense it is. Jesus, he thinks, he really is halfway in love with Kurt already. He cups Kurt's face with one hand, drawing his thumb over the brand on his cheek, before wrapping around his neck, to rest on the nape.

“What?” Kurt asks, tipping his head, so Mortimer's fingers have room to spread across the skin. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Mortimer lies, as Kurt settles into his lap, and he wraps his hand around his cock. Kurt rolls his head back, showing off his skin, and Mortimer can't resist that, nor does he try. Christ, he loves kissing Kurt here, loves how Kurt tips his head to the side to accommodate him, how they wrap around each other. How they just seem to _fit_ , like this was always meant to happen, like they were meant to happen. 

How stupid is that, he berates himself. There's no such thing as predetermination. Things happen because they happen. And this thing he's doing with Kurt, this dangerous game he's playing, no loving god would have planned this out. 

No loving god would let him touch Kurt.

Kurt comes with barely a flick of Mortimer's thumb, a shame, because he'd wanted to return the favor. 

For a few minutes after, they just touch, Mortimer for once content in the afterglow of sex, happy to have Kurt's hands on the back of his neck, Kurt's kiss, soft, light, joyful. Kurt's skin against his is fantastic, the heat of him keeping Mortimer so warm, just like he likes. 

Christ, he almost hates how easy this is.

Kurt eventually climbs off him, leaving Mortimer reaching for him, trying to pull him back. He could be good again in another minute, could give Kurt some more practice, or fuck, maybe his tail again. Damn, he likes his tail. 

Fuck, this is like cigarettes all over again.

But Kurt pops away in a puff of smoke, to the bathroom it looks like. 

Mortimer has to think about that for a moment. Azazel can teleport big distances, can see things before he jumps, can take up to a dozen people, while Kurt is so limited. The thing is though, he muses, as he gets his trousers back on so he can go smoke, if someone is touching Azazel, Azazel has no choice but to take them. 

Kurt doesn't have that restriction. He's teleported out of Mortimer's hands more than once. 

So, he thinks, as he grabs a pack and lighter off the desk by the balcony door, how does that happen? He almost wishes he had the knack for biology, so he could understand this shit better. Drives him mad, not knowing something, not being able to see the pieces, how they join together, how they function. 

He steps out on to the balcony, lighting up as he does so. 

Fuck, he thinks, raking a hand through his hair. He's still not used to the mohawk, and the differences in length kind of bothers him for a second.

His phone is in his pocket, and he pulls it out, checks the time and his messages. Nothing important, except Liam reminding him to show up. 

He scrolls through his contacts mindlessly, but he knows what he's doing, who he wants to talk to. She's the only person who ever seems to give a fuck if he's alive or dead, he thinks. She'd called him a name, and it had stung, yeah, but he supposes he's called her worse fairly often. 

He sighs, and texts her, feeling like he'll regret it later. But he needs to see her, to try and understand what the hell she thinks she's doing. To see if she's lying to him about all of this, or if maybe, just maybe, it's not her that's been lying to him. 

That thought doesn't bear thinking about.

Liam sends him a text as he stands there, reminding him to bring Kurt and vodka, if he has any. 

Shit.

This is really not one of his better plans, he knows. He's been so good lately too, not fighting, not starting nothing that wasn't well and provoked, not freelancing for cash. And now he has to go and royally fuck it up by getting into bed, literally, with an X-Man. 

If he were really as smart as everyone seems to think, he'd end this.

Arms slide around his waist, and a kiss as light as air is pressed to the back of his neck.

Well, he thinks, stubbing out the cigarette, he always says everyone overestimates his intelligence.

-

In Nick Fury's office, Wanda stands, arms crossed as she stares out through the glass, the SHIELD agents below scurrying through their jobs like ants in an ant farm. Funny, she thinks, that she would even make the comparison. She never had one as a kid. 

“I put you in charge of this mission, Wanda, and not without some serious doubts.” Fury's forced calm is covering up his obvious frustration with her. “And now you tell me you might have seriously fucked it up?”

“I lost my temper.” She says, not for the first time. “He's really good at making people do that, trust me.” 

“Regardless, you made me a promise, one that it's starting to look like you can't deliver on.” 

“I'm trying.” She still can't look at him, she's so embarrassed. “I just have to get him to listen to me. He needs a reason.”

“We might already have one.” Agent Hill says, from her spot in front of Fury's desk. 

Wanda turns to her, confused, and she holds up a manila folder. The antiquated system is used at Fury's insistence, since it removes the threat of hackers getting in and finding valuable files. Hackers meaning mostly Tony Stark, in her experience. Personnel files and mission files are all on paper, locked in vaults, and the nosy bastard has yet to figure that out, thankfully.

“What do you mean?” She asks, right as Hill opens it and spreads about a dozen photos across Fury's desk. They're sharp, high-definition photos, and she can see Mortimer clearly, see he's finally gained some weight, and really get a good look at that ridiculous haircut he's wearing.

More than that, she can see how he's looking at the man he's got his arm around, the one he's kissing in more than one photo. She's never seen that look on his face before. 

“Who is that?” She's never seen him before, this strange blue-skinned man with golden eyes and fangs, this man who looks up at Mortimer in clear adoration.

“We don't know yet.” Hill answers. “He's not in any files we have. He just sort of showed up recently. The surveillance team thought he might be relevant. To be honest, I was hoping you knew him.”

Fury is looking at her, waiting for any kind of confirmation, but she has none. She doesn't know this man, has never seen him before in her life, and Mortimer hadn't mentioned anyone over the holidays. But the way he looks at him, god. She's never seen that smile, never seen him touch anyone like that.

“Is he relevant?” Fury is still looking at her. 

“I don't know him.” She shakes her head as she speaks, and she's so confused about all of it. Mort doesn't have relationships, he has one-night stands. This is clearly the former though.

“But what do you make of these?” 

If she lies to protect Mort, she thinks, it'll come out later and put her and her family in danger. More than that, it will take away an important piece of the puzzle that is her complicated friend for her fellow agents. But Mort hates when strangers know intimate details about him, and he'll never forgive her.

Well, he's already pissed off at her. And he would understand that the boys were her priority. 

“I've seen him with dates before.” She says, choosing honesty. This is for his best interests, in any case. “But he never gives a fuck about the men he's sleeping with. He doesn't get attached easily. This face?” She points at the one to the right, where Mort's in front of that stupid motorcycle, his arms around the man as he leans in for a kiss. “This is not 'I don't give a fuck'. This is...I don't know what this is. I've never seen him look at anyone like this before. Never seen him touch anyone like this.”

Fury looks at the photos with a focused intensity, contemplative as he holds one up, one she's embarrassed to look at. God, she had not pegged him for the type to be halfway to fucking someone on his damn balcony. 

“I want to know who this man is.” It's an order, without a doubt. “Name, age, affiliation, powers. I want to know how long he's had Toad wrapped around his finger, and I want to know what chance we have of bringing him over.”

“Sir,” Hill and Wanda protest at the same time, for different reasons. Wanda's protesting the idea of anyone having Toad wrapped around their finger, to quote Fury, and she has no idea what Hill is protesting. 

“You forget, I was married.” Fury almost smiles, but not really. 

Hill, a Marine to her core even now, stares ahead without emotion, but Wanda knows her sadness shows on her face at the reference to Fury being a widower. She can't imagine losing Victor in such a way. 

“In any case,” Fury continues without acknowledging their pity. “Being married gives me a good idea of what this face is. This is the face of a man who is head over heels for the person he's looking at.” 

Wanda frowns, disbelieving. Mortimer's not the type, in her experience. 

“You said he needed a reason, Wanda.” Fury is looking at her again. “This man could be it, couldn't he?”

“I guess.” She replies, uneasy with what Fury's suggesting she do. “Sir, just to be clear...”

“Ever heard of the carrot and the stick method, agents?” 

“Of course, sir.” Hill says. She's frowning, like Wanda, though the expression is less pronounced. 

“You don't want me to use the stick.” He waves the picture. “Here's the carrot. Take your pick. Quite frankly,” He says the word through gritted teeth as he puts the photo down and knits his fingers together over his desk. “After he's managed to break into SHIELD numerous times, and stolen from me,” His voice rises and Wanda flinches. “I am much more eager to put the stick to use. Take what I offer you, Wanda.”

“Yes, sir.” She agrees, knowing when she's beat. 

“Good. You're both dismissed.” He waves them away, and Wanda sighs in disappointment.

As Hill shuts the door, she starts down the hall, back to her team, but Hill stops her.

“Agent Maximoff,” She says, and Wanda turns. Her surname is Shade now, technically, but it's easier on the base for Victor to be Agent Shade and her Agent Maximoff. They only call them by their code names when they're in costume, thankfully. “A word?”

“What is it?”

“What is it about this man? Why are we giving him special treatment? I get that he's smart, I mean, Forge hasn't stopped talking about him since the break-in, but is he really that smart that we need to go through this much trouble?” She's frowning, obviously confused, but Wanda can't think of a good answer for her. Hill really deserves one, since this is her mission too. She deserves something close to the truth, at the very least.

“Toad is my friend.” She's hoping they can leave it at that.

Hill's mouth almost drops open, she can tell, and for Hill, that must mean a lot of shock.

“We're going easy on a terrorist because he's your friend?” She asks, in a very level voice, despite the fact she's obviously pole-axed. 

“It's not just that,” She tries to think of a better explanation, of a way to say what needs to be said without sounding ridiculous. “I owe him. I owe him big. He saved my life, and the lives of my children, and he didn't have to do it. And it wasn't just a one time thing. He's kept us safe from the Brotherhood for years. I promised to protect him in return, and getting him on the right side is how I'm doing it.” 

“So, because you owe this terrorist a favor, we're just going to hand wave all his past crimes?” Hill sounds downright pissed, and Wanda can't blame her. But she has to do what she has to do. “Fury always does favor you mutates.” She says, with a shake of her head, and starts to walk away.

Offended, Wanda almost doesn't think to reply in time.

“Do you have a problem with me?” She demands, feeling the burn of power in her fingertips.

“I have a problem with how you people get special treatment around here.” She corrects. “And how no one seems to realize that maybe registration isn't exactly the biggest sin. Quite frankly, after seeing what you, your husband, and quite a few others that the Commander has brought in here can do, I'm in favor of it.”

“We'd be dragged from our homes by lynch mobs!” Wanda says, now just as pissed off. 

“Do you know that for sure?” Hill actually raises her voice in her anger. “How do you people know that will happen?”

“Because it happened to my family before!” Wanda is furious at the very idea of it happening again, to her, to her boys. “My father has numbers tattooed on his arm thanks to the last 'registration act' someone saw fit to enforce. My grandparents died in the camps, my father barely survived. You think another one will fix things? You'll just create more angry kids who see things from my father's point of view. So don't condescend to me with some bullshit about the good in people, because I know for a fact how idiotic that belief is, and so should you.”

“I can't believe you just compared registration of potentially dangerous people to the _Holocaust_ ,” Hill practically spits. 

“I can't believe you just told me I should let my children be numbered like cattle.” She snaps back, just barely keeping her hold on her powers. “You know what, I don't have to explain this to you. Fury wants him brought in, that's all you should need to obey the orders.” 

She turns without another word, not trusting herself to keep everything under control. She walks off, down the hall, back to her team, not caring where Hill goes, or if she actually turns right around to report Wanda to Fury. It's not important, she tells herself, despite the sick feeling churning in her stomach. Stopping the registration act, keeping the boys safe, stopping her father's warmongering, and saving Mortimer. These are her priorities. Not Agent Hill. 

Her phone vibrates.

Confused, she pulls it out, wondering who could be texting her.

It's Mort.

 _-I'm listening.-_

Following is a set of numbers, their code for locations. She sorts through their safe spots in the U.S. and figures out where he means quickly enough. He's set the meeting time for two am on Tuesday. 

“Thank you,” She breathes in relief, to no one in particular. 

-

The day is spent quietly enough, Kurt finally getting a chance to start on the German translation of the Koran. He likes it, he finds, because even if it is different, he finds the message similar. There are of course parts he finds distasteful, but the Bible is no different. Men making mistakes, letting their own prejudices and agendas corrupt the idea, corrupt the words. 

He's sprawled across the couch, Mortimer on the floor with papers spread around him, full of sketches and quick French print. 

Kurt watches him for a moment, taking a break from the complicated material. 

Kurt's mother is French too, like Mortimer's, but his mother had left France long before Kurt was born. Her mother, Kurt's grandmother, had left the circus to be married. Kurt's mother had joined at fifteen, so she said, choosing to be among her own kind rather than humans. As such, by the time Kurt had come along, his mother had been speaking German more often than French, like the rest of the circus. He'd learned, and could speak it passably well, but he was nowhere near as fluent as Mortimer. His mother must have spoken it exclusively at home, for him to be so versed. 

“Is your mother Catholic?” He asks, hoping he's not being rude.

“Hm?” Mortimer looks at him over his shoulder, then turns, abandoning what he's doing. He's seemed frustrated for the past half hour or so, so perhaps he wants an interruption. “Mum? Yeah, she's Catholic. All devout and shit, like you.” He scratches behind his ear. “Well, actually, no, Mum lectures me every chance she gets about me being an atheist. See, she got past the mutant bit, got past the wanting to fuck men bit, but the atheism? No. She won't have that. Last Christmas, she gave me an earful because I didn't want to drag my lazy arse out of bed for Midnight Mass, which is complete bollocks, that is, because Wanda gets a free pass, and that is blatant favoritism.”

“Who is Wanda? Your sister?” 

Mortimer gives a dry huff of laughter.

“Thank fucking Christ, no. We got no blood shared.” He insists. “Nah, Wanda and me, we go way back. Too far back, sometimes. She's my parents' neighbor now, her and her husband. Got two boys, twins. Closest my mum will get to grandchildren, those boys, and Wanda, she and my mum are pretty alike. Probably why she irritates me so damn much. I don't need two mums.” He shrugs. “I like the kids though. Tommy and Billy. They're going to turn seven this year.” 

“You like children, then?” Kurt's amused at the idea, but not really surprise. He likes Mortimer, but he lacks a certain maturity most adults have, a kind of seriousness he can't define because he himself lacks it. Probably why they get along so well.

“Kids like me.” Mortimer replies, shrugging again. “I like them. Works out alright.” 

“You swear too much to be allowed around children.” Kurt says, laughing a little.

Mortimer smirks and comes over, so that they can kiss. 

“I'll have you know, I can be a very good boy when I need to.” His hand is starting to push up Kurt's shirt, his skin cool to the touch. “As long as I got the proper motivation.”

“Do you think about anything else?” Kurt asks, as he lets the book fall to the floor, while Mortimer climbs on top of him on the couch.

“I'm twenty-six.” Mortimer smirks. “The fact that I manage to think with anything but my dick should be considered a major accomplishment.” He kisses Kurt. “You don't seem to mind.”

“I'm twenty-eight.” Kurt reminds him. “And I am not as smart as you.”

Mortimer laughs, and that's that, the decision has been made. 

“What do you want?” Mortimer's lips are hovering over Kurt's in an almost-kiss as he asks, his breath smelling like mouthwash. He was trying to accommodate Kurt's distaste for the cigarettes, and that pleased Kurt, made him feel important. “What do you want me to do for you?” 

“Your shirt off.” Kurt directs, pulling at the hem. 

Mortimer leans back on his knees, and does as he's told, so that it's his bare skin Kurt touches, the curl of ink as dark as pitch on his pale skin. His fingers, still cold, push Kurt's up further on his chest, a hint of what he himself wants. Kurt strips himself to the waist, then pulls Mortimer back down to him, so that his cool skin is pressed to Kurt's warmth. 

His hips cant up almost on their own, pressing the hardening line of his cock to Mortimer's, the denim of Mortimer's trousers rough through the fabric of Kurt's, a good friction that satisfies at least some of his lust. 

When they kiss now, there's no mystery in it, no more nerves for Kurt. He knows what Mortimer wants now, knows what he himself wants, and it's good, so very good. So easy, really. 

He wonders if it will always be like this with them, always be simple. He certainly hopes so.

Later, he finds himself curled up on top of Mortimer on the couch, settled between his legs, fingers idly tracing the tattoo. 

“Why you reading that, then?” He asks, and Kurt shrugs. 

“One of my students is a Muslim. She wears the uh, the long robes, with the veil across her face and her hair covered?” He's not sure of the words for Sooraya's clothing. 

“If you're asking me what it's called, I don't have a clue.” Mortimer says, stretching under Kurt. Kurt can feel every muscle when he does it, and it starts a curl of want in his stomach. Mischievously, he presses his fingers a little harder against Mortimer's chest, and bites his lip as the muscle refuses to give under pressure. “Bit weird, that lot.”

“Why do you say that?” Kurt asks, continuing with his explorations. 

“All covered up like that, it's odd, is all.” Mortimer shrugs. “I don't get it.”

“When you were growing up, did you believe in transubstantiation?” 

“Yeah.” 

Kurt patiently waits for Mortimer to realize where he's leading with the question. Thankfully, it doesn't take him long. He is clever, after all.

“You are the worst Catholic ever, calling transubstantiation weird.” Mortimer doesn't seem to think that's a bad thing though, from the way he's laughing. “Then again, you're having sex with me, so maybe God will overlook that bit in favor of your bigger sins.” Kurt chuckles quietly at that. 

There was a scar, on Mortimer's ribs. He hadn't noticed it before. It's small, white with age, and fills the space between his last and second to last ribs. 

“How did you get this?” He asks.

“I got stabbed.” Mortimer is, as usual, almost obscenely casual about it, as Kurt's eyes widen. “With a bloody penknife, if you can believe that. Cheating bastard. That was, uh, when I was twenty, I think. Liam was having kittens over it. He thought I was dead, but it just bled a lot. Missed my lungs, and the other important parts. Yeah, had to have been right after I turned twenty, because I was with Liam and we weren't fighting yet. Think this might have been what started his issue with me fighting at all.” 

Kurt frowns at the details, not sure how to feel about his own petty jealousy when it comes to Liam. He likes him, enjoyed his company, but there's the oddest feeling of possessiveness in his heart when Mortimer mentions him so flippantly. He's too old to behave like this, he thinks. They are friends, obviously, and Mortimer is sleeping with him, not Liam.

Even that sounds terrible, when he thinks it with so much petulance.

“Why did you fight?” Kurt asks, to keep himself distracted. Mortimer just laughs though, and drags his nails down Kurt's spine. 

“Christ, you really don't like it when I talk about him. You go all stiff.”

“Answer the question,” Kurt huffs, digging his fingers in a little harder than necessary. 

“Ow,” Mortimer starts under him at the pressure. “No need for that, dove.” It's the use of the pet name that relaxes Kurt, despite himself. He thinks that might be a special name, but he's too scared to ask. It's nice to believe, in any case. “There were a few reasons, really. I needed the money, mostly. And it was just, I mean, fuck, I'm not like you, love. I was so fucking pissed off when I was a kid, I wanted to fight with everyone. The cage fighting got it out of my system, kept me calm. It wasn't about the violence, it was about the release, you know? I didn't have to pretend, when I was fighting. Didn't have to be like them. I was better because I was different, for the first time. It felt good.” 

Kurt listens, as his fingers dip in and out of the curves of Mortimer's pectorals and collarbone. He understands this at least, even if he can't understand the outlet.

“When I was a boy,” He begins. “I found that on the trapeze. I was better than they could ever be because of how different I am. I was made to be an acrobat. I cannot see where violence can help, but I do know what you mean, about finding a place where you are the best, and it meaning everything.” 

Mortimer's hand settles itself in Kurt's hair, combing through.

“Think I was supposed to teach you something, today,” Mortimer says, after a time.

“This is fine.” Kurt replies, closing his eyes. “This is perfect.” 

He falls asleep like that.

He wakes before Mortimer, and for a few minutes, he stays with him. Mortimer's arm is curled around his waist, the other under his own head. His chest is a great pillow, really. He's warm under Kurt, the steady sound of his heartbeat soothing. 

He forces himself up after those few stolen minutes though, and into the shower. He gets himself cleaned up under the hot water, then cleans his teeth and shaves. He doesn't bother getting dressed, just ventures back out, to find Mortimer still sound asleep on the couch. He's changed position, curling around himself, maybe missing Kurt's warmth.

He crouches beside him, and concentrates on the bedroom with a hand on his bicep. When they reappear, Mortimer opens his eyes groggily, sniffing as he tries to sit up. When he notices Kurt's nudity, he grins, but it's a sleepy one.

“'M cold.” He mumbles, and Kurt climbs in beside him obligingly, wrapping himself around him. “What time is it?”

“Half past noon.” Kurt answers. 

“We got to leave around four.” He mutters. “Head over to Liam's.” He's slowly waking up, thought he's buried his face in Kurt's neck. “Listen, if my mates get kind of...uh, alright, I don't like 'em enough to be polite, if they start acting like complete wankers, just tell them to fuck off.” 

“Aren't they your friends?” Kurt starts laughing and squirming when Mortimer's mouth finds a ticklish spot on his neck, pushing at him until he moves to a better spot, one that feels so good he sighs.

“No.” He says. “They're a bunch of stupid bastards who won't leave me alone.”

Kurt just laughs, and shoves at his shoulder, rolling them over so he's on top. He loves Mortimer's chest, really, and loves how this position gives him room to see.

As he explores, he remembers being young, remembers Andre teaching him to breathe fire, bared to the waist with just a pair of track bottoms on. His heart would take up firm residence in his throat every lesson, his tail wound tight as a spring, and it had taken great restraint to make it all the way back to his caravan before he touched himself to the thought of Andre's biceps. 

Mortimer's muscles are much more impressive than Andre's, though he's a smaller man, leaner. 

“You going to do something, dove, or are you just being a pricktease?” 

“Why do you call me that?” He falls down onto his elbows as he asks, so that he can put his mouth to where his fingers have been exploring. 

“Because I want to,” Mortimer answers, stretching as he starts to really wake up under Kurt. “Do you not like it?” 

“Do you call anyone else that?” 

Mortimer looks up at him, smiles and shakes his head. 

“No, sweetheart. That's yours, no one else's. Promise.” He half-laughs, and runs his hand up Kurt's ribs. “Now, am I getting any, or what? 'Cause I could use a cigarette, just so you, - Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” He swears, because Kurt has just slid down his body and swallowed his cock down. 

This time, he's surer of himself, of what will be good for him. 

Mortimer seems satisfied, and is more than happy to return the favor, to Kurt's utter delight. 

After he's come, he watches as Mortimer gets himself cleaned up, and dresses in a lazy kind of affection. 

“I need to go to the store.” He says, as Kurt pulls on a pair of trousers. “I'm guessing you want to come and use your new toy?” 

Eager now, Kurt nods. 

The minute they step on to the sidewalk, he loops his arm through Mortimer's, still nervous, though his grin is threatening to split his face in two. 

They don't take the bike, because the corner store is only a ten-minute walk, and besides, Kurt wants to spend every moment he can outside, seen, but unseen in a way he has never been able to enjoy. His heart feels lighter than it ever has before in public, and he just can't describe it at all, how utterly freeing it is.

In the store is even better, as he takes his time looking over all the food, and the candy. He's never seen so many choices before, has never been able to really linger in a store. There's chocolate with almonds, chocolate with peanuts, chocolate with pretzels, chocolate with sea salt, chocolate with chili peppers even! And so many kinds of gummy candy, in all sorts of colors and shapes. Fish and worms and spiders and watermelon slices and even gummies shaped like coca-cola bottles. 

Cinnamon candies too, and candy with coconut, and mint candy. So many combinations he had never thought existed. 

“What do you want then?” Mortimer is back beside him, with a carton of milk in a little hand basket. 

“There's too much.” Kurt says in awe, unable to actually comprehend all of it.

“Fuck,” He hears him swear under his breath. “That stuff rots your teeth, you are aware of that?”

“Cigarettes rot your lungs.” Kurt replies automatically, still overwhelmed by them all. 

“Fair point.” Mortimer crouches beside him, setting the basket down. “Just pick something. How much candy can you eat in one day anyway?” 

Kurt side-eyes him, wondering what kind of childhood the man had. 

Mortimer looks at him.

“You were the kind of kid who ate so much you made yourself sick, weren't you?” He shakes his head in what seems like amazement as he says it. 

Kurt nods. He'd assumed all children did that, but apparently not Mortimer. 

“Just grab some. You can try something different next time if you hate them.” 

“How can you hate candy?” Kurt doesn't quite understand how that's possible. In any case, he grabs the gummies shaped like coca-cola bottles, the ones shaped like worms, the bright red cinnamon candies, the chocolate with chili peppers, and the round chocolate candies with peanuts in them. Then he grabs the other round colored candy with the rainbow on the bag, lured in by the promise of sour. 

“I am not responsible if you get diabetes.” Mortimer says, raising his eyebrows at it all. 

“What is that?” Kurt frowns, sounding the word out under his breath. 

Mortimer rolls his eyes. 

“It's something you get when you eat too many sweets.” He sounds very judgmental as they make their way to the aisle with the coffee. 

“Like people who smoke too much get lung cancer?” He returns, and Mortimer's shoulders stiffen as he realizes Kurt has him there. He grins at him, but Mortimer just pouts, so he kisses him on the cheek to make amends. 

The coffee is the same as the candy aisle, so many choices. He studies them all, as Mortimer watches him, neither of them in any rush. 

“What does this one taste like?” He asks, pointing at one that has the golden outline of a woman on a horse on it. 

Mortimer shrugs. 

“I don't know. Get it and find out.” 

Pleased, Kurt drops it in the basket as they move down to the tea, where Mortimer is obviously more particular. He grabs four different boxes without even glancing at the other brands and flavours, while Kurt follows. He doesn't drink tea, and while he's intrigued by the idea of cinnamon spice tea, it's not enough to buy it. 

“I don't have any sugar, so if you want it for the coffee, get some.” Mortimer says, nodding at the shelf full of sugar at the end of the aisle. 

Kurt can't possibly choose from all the options, as he frowns at them. Some are clearly for cooking, while others are not, and some say artificial sweetener, while others say pure sugar.

“How do people choose?” He asks, confused.

Mortimer shrugs again, and grabs a small box advertising raw cane sugar, with pictures of sugar cane on the label.

“This is probably the best of the lot.” 

Kurt doesn't know how he knows, and the word 'raw' actually throws him off, but he doesn't protest. He might simply be misunderstanding how it is being applied in the context, something he's done before. 

Mortimer doesn't get anything else, and Kurt frowns at him as they head to the registers.

“Why don't you buy food?”

“Because I get called out of state all the time, or forget to come home. Easier to just get take-away. Food will just spoil.” 

Kurt supposes that's true enough. 

“I need two cartons of Benson & Hedges,” He tells the girl behind the till, as she rings them up, frowning at the candy as she does so. She frowns at that too, but does as she's asked.

“She disapproves of both of our bad habits.” Kurt loops his arm back through Mortimer's as he says this, putting his head on his shoulder. 

“Does she?” He asks, as he gets his wallet out with his free hand. “Can't say I care.”

Kurt narrows his eyes at him, and Mortimer must feel it, because he turns to look at him. 

“What? I don't.” He sounds like he's afraid he's in trouble, and it's so funny, it breaks Kurt's concentration, and he laughs. “Hey, actually, I'm buying you candy, now that I that I think about it. Don't I get something for that?” 

Kurt gives him a kiss, just as the girl returns with Mortimer's cigarettes.

“Oh my god,” She looks stricken. “Somebody is actually dating you?” She looks at Kurt. “Have you actually had a conversation with him?”

“The fuck?” Mortimer scowls at her. “What'd I do to you?”

“The first time you came in here, you called me a cunt because we didn't have your damn cigarettes in stock.” She says, ticking it off on a finger. “The second time I had the joy of talking to you, you were pissed because we didn't have whole milk, and you called me a 'twat', which I had to Google when I got home, and it of course turned out to be rude. The third time, I don't know what I did to you, but you called me a waste of carbon. When you stopped showing up, I was praying you had finally moved.” 

She makes a good point, and Kurt's giggling. 

“Hell, last week you called Stacy a waste of the x-gene because she clicked debit instead of credit.” 

“You can't insult shop girls.” Kurt doesn't think the girl is particularly traumatized, just irritated, so he's not terribly concerned. “She is not in charge of ordering the milk.” 

“I was just pissed off.” 

“Apologize to her.” Kurt orders good-naturedly, poking at him.

“What?” 

The girl crosses her arms and gives Mortimer a tight smile, obviously not believing it's going to happen until she hears it. 

Mortimer scowls at him, and he grins in return, waiting. 

“You were rude, unnecessarily so. So you should make amends.” Kurt isn't budging on this game. He wants to see just how far he can push it. 

Mortimer looks at his boots, then the ceiling, and finally the girl.

“Sorry.” 

She smiles, but it's more like she's laughing at Mortimer than actually happy to have him apologize. 

While she rings them up, her eyes are on the register, so Kurt takes the opportunity to kiss his neck, then the lobe of his ear, grinning while he does, his tail twitching under his shirt. 

“You're such a pain in my arse.” Mortimer mutters, eyeing him. 

“Yes, but you like me.” 

“Which really proves that all that shit about me being clever is complete rubbish.” 

He pays, and they leave, Kurt digging through the bag with the cigarettes and candy, digging through until he finds the bag of gummi bottles. He tears it open with his fangs after struggling for a moment, and tentatively tries one.

He looks around, to make sure they're alone, or as alone as you get on a street, then uncurls his tail from his waist so he can use it to hold the bag. With his now free hand, he takes Mortimer's, his heart almost ready to burst out of his chest as they walk. 

He went to the store, he thinks. He went to the store with his boyfriend, and they bought milk, and now he's eating candy and walking down the _street_ , the actual street, holding his hand and eating candy and they bought _milk_ and _sugar_ , like normal people. 

“What do they taste like?” Mortimer is watching him eat them, curious. 

Kurt holds one out in answer, and Mortimer takes it from between his fingers, his face entirely too thoughtful for a piece of candy. 

“That's not bad.” He says, after a moment.

“You have to think about candy?” Kurt thinks maybe he has to think about everything, but he kind of likes that. He likes to think about things before he judges them too. 

He eats another, then kisses Mortimer, so this time they both taste like the candy. 

When he pulls back, Mortimer is half-smiling in a way that takes years off his face, or maybe just years of seriousness. Either way, he's actually handsome when he smiles like this. Not that Kurt doesn't like his face, but he's not biased enough to not see that his features are more interesting than anything else. 

Right now though, like this, their foreheads touching, as Mortimer smiles down at him, he's handsome. 

Kurt closes his eyes in the weak afternoon light, and smiles, so happy. So very, very happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the people reading this, thank you. I'm a shit writer, I'm aware, and I know I have no future in the field, but fanfiction lets me pretend. So thanks for that, because it's a wonderful release.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domino finds out she's bitten off a little more than she realized, but she's not the only tail on Toad and Nightcrawler. A party is attended, accusations are made, and more motivations are revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Look what I have! The lovely and gorgeous thepart made a video for this fic, titled _Me & You_, found here: http://youtu.be/HK6wZO8MxGw?hd=1 
> 
> To quote another writer, atomic-comic, from a completely different fandom, this turns my heart to squishy sunshine.

Domino wishes she'd brought her Game Boy to her surveillance watch. Toad and Little Boy Blue were downright dull. All they did was fuck and talk, fuck and talk. It was enough to make her idly hold her Beretta against her temple and turn the safety off, just to alleviate the boredom.

Either way, she's happy to be back at the base, with said Game Boy. 

“Domino,” Magneto calls, and she answers, like the fantastic soldier she is. “Back already?”

“If I have to watch Toad act like a lovesick puppy anymore today, I'm going to hang myself.” She means it too. Toad is pathetic over Little Boy Blue, and it's enough to make her want to gag. “He calls him pet names, sir. Like _dove_. What the fuck is up with that?”

“Language, Domino.” Right, she remembers. He thinks swearing is vulgar and shows a lack of education. Toad swears like he breathes, so no one ever bothers with his ass anymore, but she's held to a higher standard. 

“Sorry.” She apologizes like a good girl. “No, but really, he calls him 'love', 'pet', 'sweetheart', and the way he _looks_ at him, ugh. I wanted to play Russian Roulette with myself and lose by the time I left.” She puts her toy down. “Honestly, I figured Toad sold his heart for a pack of cigarettes when he was twelve, but apparently not.”

“He's known him for a very short time.” Magneto says, but he doesn't deny that Toad could in fact be in love, like anyone else who has ever met the foul little bastard would.

“Yeah, well, he's head over heels for him, or, to be accurate, 'arse over teakettle'.” She mocks Toad's accent as she says it. God, she loves doing that. It annoys him so much. It's like hitting a pinata. It never gets old, and sometimes, there's candy.

“And Kurt?” 

The boss is really interested in the whole matter, she thinks. She looks at him, tilting her head in her confusion.

“Sir, what exactly am I doing?” She asks, suddenly a little less amused and a little more worried. She doesn't like being worried. She doesn't like how it makes her feel sick to her stomach. “Why do we care who Toad is fucking? I mean, yeah, it's, you know, _him_ , but is it really a big deal? Toad is always holing up with someone for a night.”

“We care because I told you to.” Magneto is looking at Toad's work table again, sorting through his papers, though why, she has no idea. The fucker doesn't write in English. Something about nosy cows with too much time on their hands, when she'd asked why. And then he'd given her that nasty look that made him look like a bulldog. 

The boss seems interested in something on one of the pages, to judge from the way he smiles.

“I just want to protect my investment in Toad.” 

“Sir?” She really is confused now. “Investment?”

“I need him.” Magneto says. “Toad keeps the base running, keeps the locations on our waywards straight, and he builds for me. I need him to continue to be as loyal as he always has.”

The sick feeling in her stomach isn't worry, she realizes. It's guilt.

“You want to use Kurt as insurance.” She says, just to clarify. It's not a question of whether she'll do it, she knows. She owes this man too much. But she wants to know exactly what she's doing. She doesn't like surprises. 

Magneto looks up at her, and smiles in that reassuring, fatherly way that never fails to make her feel better. 

“I want to make sure Toad remembers who he is.” 

He walks away from her, arms clasped behind his back, leaving Domino alone in the room. Without that smile turned on her, the feeling, the uncomfortable one twisting in her gut, returns with a vengeance.

Curious, she walks over to the work table to see what he was smiling at.

The notebook is open to some of Toad's French scrawl. Confused, she tips her head, trying to figure out what it is the boss liked on the page. She can sort of read a little of it, the language not so horribly different from Spanish, but it just looks like his usual 'I purposefully make all of you feel incredibly stupid just by opening my mouth' nonsense. She hates that. It makes her want to bash his head in with a bat sometimes, just to bring him down to their level.

Except in the corner, she notices, there's something else. It's English writing, messy and close together, almost absent-minded seeming. Like he was thinking about something else.

_Two shall be born the whole world wide apart,  
And speak in different tongues, and pay their debts,  
In different kinds of coin; and give no heed  
Each to the other's being. And know not  
That each might suit the other to a T._

Oh, she thinks. 

Oh.

Suddenly, her jokes about him being in love aren't very funny.

-

 

They head out around half past three, Kurt's crucifix carefully wrapped up and put in the messenger bag.

The ride out is pretty, past trees and fallow fields that look like wonderful places to sleep and sneak away.

He lets himself imagine a day spent in one in particular, picturing it grown tall with grass and weeds, buzzing with insects, under the warmth of the spring sun. He loves winter, truly, but he misses the warmth too. 

He rest his head against Mortimer's back and wonders how long it would take to convince him to spend a day out here with Kurt, hiding away from the rest of the world. He's coming to love spending time with him. He's easy to speak to, easy to get along with. Abrasive to many, it seems, but not with Kurt. He wonders why, as they turn a corner, down a road Kurt hadn't even noticed, into the trees. Is there something special about him? Not really, he thinks.

Over them, the sunlight dapples through the trees, over the road, as they follow it up. Suddenly, the trees end, and another field appears. Off to the side sits an old farm house, and Kurt is surprised when they slow, and turn down the drive, Mortimer driving more carefully now that they're on packed dirt instead of paved road. 

Other cars sit in the grass, as Mortimer stops, and puts the kickstand down.

Curious, Kurt looks the house over as he teleports off the bike, closer to the porch. It's covered in ivy, and honestly, it's almost derelict. Yet at the same time, there's almost a personality to the whole thing. He tilts his head at it first one way, than the other. Inside must be even stranger, he thinks.

There's a plastic pumpkin on the wide front porch, with a grinning face carved in.

Kurt raises an eyebrow at it. 

“Come on,” Mortimer has taken all four steps in one far too easy looking leap, his hands stuffed in his pockets to ward off the chill in the January air.

Kurt follows, adjusting the messenger bag carefully against his hip. He wishes Mortimer hadn't made that face when he lingered over the image inducer, wishes he hadn't felt so horribly guilty for even considering it for this. But meeting new people can be tricky for him, and he would of liked to have had the extra security. 

Still, the expression had clearly said it was a bad choice, so Kurt had tucked it into the messenger bag. 

The other man opens the front door without knocking, clearly comfortable with Liam's home, leaving Kurt to awkwardly trail behind him. He feels out of place, as he lets his tail tentatively reach out, wrap around Mortimer's arm. 

He looks over his shoulder, eyebrows raised, but Kurt's feelings must be apparent, because he smiles, and leans back to kiss him. “No one here bites, Kurt. Promise.” He smirks. “Not that you need it, but if anyone tries, I'll make them swallow their teeth.” 

“Why must you be so violent?” Kurt kisses him back though, sure he's joking this time. It's so hard to tell. 

“Only for you.” 

“Jesus, Toad, don't make me be sick all over Liam's new rug.” Mortimer cringes away from Kurt and they both turn to see the speaker, a young woman with vaguely Asian features, and long, violet hair. “You're late, as usual. Everyone's in the kitchen.” 

“Who all is here?” 

The woman is smaller than the both of them, but there's clear definition of muscle on her bare arms, better than Kurt's, and there's something in the set of her chin, the firm line of her mouth, that leads Kurt to believe he should not underestimate her. She reminds him or Ororo, lovely, but not soft or delicate at all. 

“Damion came, and he managed to drag Zeeshan out of his dorm, at least for the night.” She rolls her eyes up towards the ceiling, thinking. “Gertrude came, but she's in a mood, if you know what I mean, and Tommy brought Sarah. Patrick claims he's bringing Tatiana, but I'll believe it when I see it.” She gives Kurt a once-over, and offers a tight smile. “Sorry, I'm Betsy. You?” 

“Kurt,” He leaves off the rest, since she gives no further information. He doesn't think Betsy is one for showy introductions, and she already appears annoyed at something. 

Mortimer tugs on his tail, and when Kurt looks up at him, he jerks his head towards a doorway before ducking through it. Kurt goes with him, but Betsy doesn't, taking out a phone as she heads off into another room. 

The whole house smells of cigarettes, smoke, and old furniture, Kurt notices at last. It's no worse than some places he's lived, but taking some getting used to, especially with his sense of smell. He's sure it's no more pleasant to Mortimer either, especially since he's so careful to not smoke in his home.

“Liam smokes inside?” He speculates, and Mortimer smirks.

“Just a little.” 

They round the corner, and come into the kitchen. Like the rest of the house seems to be, it's a hodge-podge of eras and styles, a clearly new microwave sitting on a tiled counter top that looks like it's seen better days, right beside a gas range that even Kurt knows is three decades out of date. 

Liam, sitting on a kitchen island that doesn't match the rest of the cabinetry, not even close, perks up when he sees them, but his eyes are intent on Mortimer. “Hey,” He greets, waving the hand not holding a red plastic cup. “Mort, my best mate, c'mere,” Kurt barely understands him, his accent thick with alcohol, slurring the words too much. 

“In a minute.” Mortimer guides Kurt towards the other people in the room instead. 

There's a small young woman with rosy pink skin and clashing fire-engine red hair, with something like bony horns growing through it. The tall man beside her, on the other hand, has chalk white skin with thick black tattoos covering his arms, and black eyes. He smiles in a friendly enough way, despite his appearance. 

“Hi,” The girl says, not removing her hands from her hoodie pocket to shake one of Kurt's. “I'm Sarah. Or Marrow. Whichever.” 

“Damion.” The man beside her says, and he does extend his hand. His skin burns hot, and Kurt recoils in surprise. “Sorry, forgot to warn you. It's my mutation, I create energy. I'm about seven or ten degrees hotter than a human.” 

Mortimer nods at the others. “The one with the scar is Gertrude.” He means the stone-faced, dark-skinned woman standing by the window a few feet away, with a beer in hand, and a prominent scar running from temple to chin. “Looks like she's in a bad mood, like Bets said. Best leave her be for now.” 

“Bad mood is an understatement.” Another man, sitting in a chair at the battered kitchen table says, joining the conversation. He's darker than Gertrude, with dreadlocks bound up at the back of his head. “About took my head off when I asked her if she wanted to slow down. That's her eighth.” 

“Fantastic.” He sounds almost angry, and Kurt weaves his tail back around his wrist, hoping it will calm him like it has before. He doesn't know why it works, but it does, and this time is no exception as his shoulders relax just a hair. 

The dreadlocked man raises his beer to Kurt. “I'm Thomas, by the way. You are?”

“Kurt.” He smiles at them all, determined to be as friendly as possible. “You are all mutants?” He knows Betsy must be, to judge by how her eyelashes and eyebrows matched her hair, and so must Sarah and Damion. But he wants to be sure about Thomas and Gertrude, before he makes assumptions. 

Thomas holds up an empty bottle from the table, and then, before Kurt's eyes, it turns from green glass to solid stone. “Transmutation.” He explains. “I can turn stuff into other stuff, basically.” He nods at Gertrude. “Gertie is a psychometric. She can see the history of objects, by touching them. Useful, at times.” He looks back to Kurt, tilting his head to the side in query. “What else can you do?” 

Kurt grins, then reappears in a puff of smoke, perched on the back of the chair beside Thomas. His balance is impeccable, and he has no fear of tipping it one way or the other. 

Damion applauds showily, while Sarah rolls her eyes in a good-natured way at him. “A teleporter? Well done, Mort. Much better than your last choice.” 

Mortimer cuts him down with a glare that could freeze fire. “One more word, Damion, I'm warning you.” Damion takes it to heart, and quiets, to Kurt's disappointment. He's curious as to what he means, but he supposes he'll just ask Mortimer later. 

“Where did Betsy go?” Thomas asks, as Mortimer jumps the table with grace, landing with a thump against the wall, sticking for a moment, before he hops to the ground, and takes the seat beside the one Kurt is sliding down into, though he keeps he feet pulled up in a crouch. He gets the feeling no one will mind if he sits wrong here, might not even see it that way. 

“She had a call.” Mortimer answers shortly, rocking back in his chair so that one bent knee is supporting him against the table. “Said she'll be back in a minute.” Without even being asked, he turns to Kurt. “Bets is a minor telepath. Sometimes she forgets to say shit out loud, so don't be worried by it.” 

Kurt's not sure he likes that. He's finding telepathy more invasive, now that he's around more than just his own mother. There's something very uncomfortable about the whole thing when it's a stranger meandering through his more private thoughts. 

“So, what's wrong with her?” Mortimer means Gertrude, still silent and unsocial at the window. She doesn't even seem to notice any of them. 

Liam joins them at the table as he answers, though he stumbles more than he should when he gets down from the counter, and he seems to fumble far too long with getting the chair pulled out. “Gertie's been having a hard time of it, which you would know if you weren't such an anti-social git.” 

Mortimer scoffs. “I've been busy. You know that.” 

“Yeah, busy.” Liam is less than impressed by this, and Kurt is growing confused. Mortimer had explained at the tattoo shop last week, he'd thought. Why is he questioning it now? 

There's a flash of purple in the corner of his vision, and he glances up at Betsy, standing in the doorway. She meets Kurt's eyes, and suddenly, he feels her, in his mind. Whereas with Dr. Grey, he had felt the warmth of a flame, with Betsy, it's like a spark of electricity. Shocked, he forces her back out with more strength than he meant, and she physically recoils. 

Embarrassed by his reaction, he thinks an apology as hard as he can, and thankfully feels the edge of her again in his mind, as she test his boundaries. Gently, he feels her poke around at him, as everyone around them talks, asking him without words about his history. She's making sure he can be trusted, he suspects. 

He opens up to her as much as he's uncomfortable, but when she hits on the X-Men, he feels her stumble, and circle it a few times, like a dog sniffing out a rabbit. _-You should keep that to yourself,-_ She thinks at him. _-Charles Xavier is no one's friend here.-_

He thanks her for the warning, as she withdraws from him and enters the room, taking a seat at the table with everyone else. She smiles at him, like she's trying to be assuring, but he's still cautious after her invasive maneuver into his mind. He's not sure he likes someone so free with such a powerful ability. 

She feels that, he sees, in the way she looks away from him with reddening cheeks. 

“Hey, no private conversations!” Liam suddenly declares, pointing between them. “I mean it, Bets, knock it off.” 

The woman turns to him, one violet eyebrow raised in clear disdain, and then turns back to Kurt. Her eyelashes are very long, he sees, and the bright purple against her pale skin is like a dash of paint. For all the strange features he has seen, there is something so startling about hers. When she focuses on Kurt, he feels her again, little static sparks. _-Liam doesn't trust you.-_ He hears, like a whisper. _-Watch your step around him.-_

He wonders why she feels the need to warn him, a relative stranger, but she answers the question in the space of a heartbeat. He sees Mortimer, in his mind, a much younger Mortimer, maybe in his late teens or early twenties, smoking and scowling. He's in pain though, and he feels her concern, as she hands him a beer. Hurt, always hurt, so angry, and no one, not even her, understood. 

She wants to know if he understands. 

He honestly doesn't know, doesn't know what she's showing him, what she's telling him. 

Mortimer's cool hand on the back of his neck brings him back to the real conversation going on around them, and he focuses, back on the other people. 

“Great.” He's replying to something Damion said, something about a job of some kind. “Has anyone seen Patrick, by the way?”

Everyone shakes their heads. “No, but he says he's coming.” Damion says, with a casual shrug. “Who knows though. He's been pretty fucked up, ever since that bitch dumped him.” Everyone seems to know who he means by that, and even Mortimer scowls in response.

“You did not like her?” He asks, as an aside to him.

Sarah answers him instead. “Let me put it this way,” She points at Mortimer. “She made Toad here look like Mary fucking Poppins.” Kurt side-eyes Mortimer, really thinking about what seems to be a nickname of sorts. 'Toad'. He is frog-like, in his mutation, as he's said, but Toad isn't a very flattering name. Then again, his is Nightcrawler, and considering what Rogue said the word meant here, maybe his was worse. 

“Who is that?” He asks, not understanding the reference. “Mary Poppins?” 

“Disney shit.” Mortimer mutters, his cold fingers tracing the vertebrae of Kurt's spine. “Not worth it.”

“Someone has an issue with certain Americans faking Cockney accents.” Sarah sing-songed to her beer. 

Mortimer's face twists into something ugly and annoyed. “Don't. Start.” 

“Whatever,” She waves him off dismissively. “Want me to text Patrick? Make sure he's not wasted in some dive again?” 

“I need him to fix something.” Mortimer replies, so Sarah gets her phone out, and taps the keys, working her tongue between her teeth as she does. “He been doing that a lot? Getting pissed?” 

Zeeshan speaks, when no one else will. “He's getting better. I had to go pick his sorry arse up a few times, but he seems to be pulling through.” 

That means Kurt's crucifix might stay broken. He's disappointed, but less so than he would have been earlier in the week, before Mortimer gave him the inducer. The joy of it has wiped out anything else he might feel for a while. 

The chatter picks up to something more cheerful, and it's nice, engaging. He loves the school, loves being around the students, but he's missed adult company more than he thought. Mortimer is attentive to him, filling him in on details as everyone talks so that he's less confused by name-dropping and references to events everyone seems to have been at. After a game of something called quarters starts up though, he grows bored, and wanders away to explore the rest of the house. It's old, very old, the hardwood floors creaking under his feet as he walks. They're heavily scratched, from age and abuse, and under his feet, they feel strange. 

The walls have been through several layers of paper and paint, but it looks like Liam is in the process of stripping them down. He's made some progress, and he finally finds a finished room, down a hallway, and past four other doors in the large place. This room has been painted aubergine, the floors refinished, and bookshelves, new and still smelling of varnish, have been built in. He runs his tail over the spines of the books. They're all art books, histories of different movements, from Japanese woodblocks, to something called sticker-bombing. He flips through that one in interest, and he's delighted by the strange designs, the many different styles of the artists. He reads their interviews in the back, their reasoning, 'to make the world more beautiful', hitting a note in him. 

He puts it back on the shelf, and explores some more. There's supplies on a neat work table, paint, brushes, pencils, markers, and paper. There's a pile of half-finished designs as well, some good, some not. Liam is very talented, moreso than Kurt thought.

He takes a sheet of paper, and a piece of vine charcoal, mindlessly scribbling, inspired by the surroundings. He does a simple vine of passion flowers, using a blackened eraser to carve out the light so that their shape becomes solid. It takes him all of twenty minutes, and when he's done, he leaves it on the desk with the others. 

Maybe that's what they'll do tomorrow, go buy art supplies. He loves this, he loves having the _option_. He can linger over charcoal, pencils. Watercolors. Oil paint. Ink. Oh, ink, he can purchase ink. He's going to spend all his pay there, he knows, the minute he sees the ink bottles. 

Kurt finds himself standing in front of a deer skull wearing faerie lights and derby hat, trying to puzzle out its meaning.

A beer bottle is handed over his shoulder, and he takes it, wrapping his tail around Mortimer's waist as he comes up against Kurt's back. “Found you.” He whispers triumphantly, his lips pressed to the skin below one pointed ear. “Never could account for his taste.” His skin is bitterly cold against Kurt, and he squirms against him, turning coy when Mortimer glares at him. “Warm me up, why don't you?” 

“Why should I?” Kurt teases, taking a sip from his new bottle. “I already promised you a race tonight.” 

“Because my dick can't get hard if I'm frozen.” 

“Not my problem.” 

Mortimer pinches his tail in retribution, and for a second, they're playing. 

“You know, I knew you were a complete asshole, but I never realized just how bad it was.” Mortimer doesn't withdraw from Kurt, but he does stiffen as he looks at who has interrupted them. He's only their height, Asian, and he's scowling. 

“Patrick,” Mortimer's annoyed as he lets go of Kurt. Kurt tries to mind his own business, not sure what's going on exactly. “Now's not the time.” 

The man just shakes his head. “Whatever, Mort.” He scratches the back of his neck, then hitches his chin at Kurt in greeting. “Who are you?”

“Kurt Wagner.” He leaves off the rest of his usual introduction. He gets the feeling the man isn't interested. “You are Patrick?” The man looks at Mortimer, eyebrow raised, then back at Kurt. 

“Yeah, that's me. Why's he told you about me?” 

Eager now, Kurt dashes off to find the messenger bag, then returns quickly, and removes the crucifix, unwrapping it to show him. He inspects it with a careful eye, and takes it, testing the crack gently. “Pretty thing. What is this, olive wood?”

Kurt nods. “From the Holy Land.”

Patrick very slowly raises his eyebrows. He blinks. Then he turns to Mortimer.

“What the fuck is he doing with you?”

Mortimer frowns. “What?”

“Anyone who says the words 'Holy Land' without a trace of fucking irony, should not be within ten feet of you, much less letting you molest him.” He turns his gaze back on Kurt. “What? Is he an experiment? You trying to fix him, or something? Let me tell you, there's nothing to fix in that fucked up head of his. He was born an asshole. So you can just give it up.” 

“Fuck you too.” Mortimer jams his hands in the pockets of his jacket, his black eyes burning a hole in the carpet. “Why are you all trying to cock block me?” 

“Because you owe me fifty quid.” Patrick runs his fingers over the splintering sides, contemplative. “I can fix this. It won't be easy though. I'll have to call in for a replacement piece, and honestly, the whole thing needs work. It's old as fuck.” 

Guiltily, Kurt shifts, his knees bending as he crouches. “I have tried to take care of it. Is it very bad?”

Patrick shrugs. “I can fix it. It's not your fault. It looks like it could have used the going over about twenty years ago.” He wraps it back up, and sets it in a boxy canvas bag on the floor, tucking it away carefully. “I'll get it back to you when it's done. Might take me a bit, maybe a month or so.”

“Thank you,” Kurt's grateful, enough that he can feel his tail curling in joy. “How much will it cost?”

“Let's say seventy. I'll give you a discount, you being his boyfriend, and all.” He sneers at Mortimer. “Payment on delivery, okay?”

Seventy is doable, especially for a family antique. “That will be fine.” 

He's struck by a strange feeling, and he realizes that Mortimer isn't touching him, for once. He's actually lighting a cigarette, to Kurt's disappointment. He supposes it means nothing, in a house with a chain smoker, but he would rather kiss him with the taste of his mouth, of the beer, not ash. 

Something's off. 

“Mortimer?” He asks, his tail winding around Mortimer's forearm. “You do not normally smoke inside.” 

He takes a hit off it before he speaks, blowing the smoke out his nose. “Making an exception.” 

“Yeah, you're making all sorts of exceptions here lately, aren't you?” Patrick says, as he looks over the books. “Almost can't recognize you.” 

Mortimer actually bends the cigarettes between his fingers. “Fuck off, cunt,” 

Patrick whirls on him, and pokes him right in the chest, electricity sparking off him like a live wire. “Gimme a reason, you fucking son of a bitch, and I will fry you,”

Something about that insult hits Mortimer hard, and before Kurt knows it, he's shoved Patrick back. Not as hard as he could have, because Kurt knows how much strength is actually coiled in those muscles, how easily he could crush the other man, but still harder than needed. “If you ever say a word about my mother again, I'll break something.”

He doesn't need to specify. He doesn't even need to raise his voice. Kurt's never heard him speak like this before, this low growl where his accent is somehow thick, but precise. It's unmistakeably dangerous, and for a moment, he is frightened. 

So Kurt tugs on his arm, as Patrick gets his footing back. He turns to Kurt, eyes still hard and deadly, but he softens when he sees that he's scaring Kurt. He rakes a hand through his hair, and lets Kurt approach, so he can straighten his mohawk back out. 

“Don't,” Kurt cautions. “Please, don't fight.” 

He appears lost, somewhere in the slump of his shoulders and the ache in his dark eyes, but when Kurt tries to smile at him, it seems to help. He tilts his head towards Patrick. “Sorry.”

The other man frowns, his mouth opening, then closing without words. His eyes go to Kurt, a strange kind of awe that seems like anything but a compliment. 

“Let's go outside, okay?” Kurt offers, leading Mortimer out. “You'll feel better.” 

He nods, and follows, but takes the lead once they're out of the room, finding a side door Kurt hadn't noticed. 

Outside, Mortimer takes a deep breath, as Kurt hooks an arm through his. 

“Do you want to tell me what is going on?” He asks, but not in a threatening way, he hopes. Mortimer just shakes his head though, so Kurt lets it go. He has his suspicions, but he doesn't want to push him. He'll tell Kurt when Kurt needs to know. 

The other man seems deep in contemplation, as he discards his cigarette and pulls Kurt close for a kiss. He tastes like ash, like the poisons in them, but Kurt can't mind when he's being kissed like this. No one kisses him like Mortimer. This man kisses him like Kurt is an incubus, like Kurt is an antidote, like he needs this to live. He's never been desired like this, and perhaps vanity is a sin, but it's just so amazing for him, so novel, to be wanted.

“This shouldn't be happening,” Even his breath is cool against Kurt's mouth. “Kissing you shouldn't get me hard, Christ, I'm not fifteen,” Despite that, Kurt can feel his interest. He's only interested, actually, maybe too cold to really get a reaction. Even Kurt's body protests the idea, despite his mind's eager prodding. 

“No,” Kurt's appreciative, as he snakes his tail under Mortimer's shirt to trace the lines of the muscles in his stomach, “You are not.” 

“I'll have you know,” He replies, grabbing the questing limb and yanking it out, “I had muscle at fifteen too.” 

He recalls the memory Betsy showed him, and shakes his head. “Betsy showed me a memory of you, before you had this,” He touched Mortimer's bicep, meaning the piece there. “You took time, to fill in to your shoulders.” He does now, of course, Kurt admires. 

“What was Betsy showing you that for?” His brow is furrowed in suspicion, and Kurt stands straight up on his toes so he can kiss the line it causes. 

“She was only making sure I was good enough for you, I think,” He means in the way friends and family are always leery of new faces near their loved ones, but Mortimer just seems genuinely confused by the notion. “She is your friend. She worries for you.”

“Yeah, I'm sure.” Again, there's that strange feeling that Kurt is missing something, but he's not sure what it is, exactly. “Want to take a walk?” He jerks his head towards the woods. “It's getting late. Even if we left now, no point in going to the park. Full of drunks and stupid kids by now.” 

Kurt nods his acquiescence, and threads his arm back through Mortimer's so that they can walk joined. 

Inside the trees, he finds more than he expected.

There's statues everywhere, some broken, most covered in moss. They pass a fountain, half crumbled, but filled with water and overgrown with lily pads. Rosebushes run wild all over, still their winter brown, all just so many empty, tangled branches, like skeletons lying on the dirt, clinging to the old trees.

It's beautiful.

Mortimer is looking at him, waiting it seems, for his reaction. 

“Liam fell in love with it.” He explains, waving his hand in a dismissively encompassing way. “He loves stuff like this. You know, that house didn't have water, and he bought it anyway. Took him a year to get it up to code.” He's getting a cigarette out before they walk around the well-worn path. “Was owned by some mad old bat for years, apparently. She did all this.” 

“I like it.” Kurt pulls him over for a kiss before he can light the thing, intending it to be light, affectionate, but Mortimer keeps him close for an extra minute, kisses him again. 

“Do you like them?” He means his friends, so Kurt nods, because he thinks he does, so far, except for the oddness, the things going on that he doesn't understand. He maybe likes Betsy, sort of, and Sarah was very nice. Patrick, not so much. “I know it's all, fuck, I don't even know, _stupid_ , I guess, in there right now, but it's not usually like this.” He's desperate for approval, as Kurt cups his neck, letting him leech warmth. “I just...I want to give you what you want. I don't know if this is what you want, so just ask, alright?”

Kurt nuzzles him, his cheek cold against Kurt. “I have what I want, for the most part.”

“For the most part?” He presses his lips to Kurt's jaw. 

“I can wait for the rest,” Kurt presses his tail against Mortimer's cock through his trousers, and the man stiffens against him. He takes his tail away, and starts back down the path, Mortimer catching up to him after only a moment. 

They are silent, as they walk, a good, peaceful silence that fills Kurt's heart up with joy. “Do you think there is a service near your home that I could attend tomorrow?” He's excited about the prospect, so when Mortimer nods, it's enough to make him want to dance. “Would you go with me?”

The man huffs. “I don't know if you've realized, but just because you'll look like one of them, doesn't mean they'll be any happier about the whole faggot thing.” 

“Don't use that word.” 

“Kurt,”

“Don't.” He insists. “I hate it.” 

He has a point though. Kurt sighs, and curls into him, as they reach the house again. 

Betsy, her hair neon in the moonlight, is waiting on the porch, smiling cheerfully. “There you two are.” She stands, brushing off her jeans, and grabs Mortimer's sleeve. “Kurt, if you don't mind, I'm going to steal him away for a bit, alright?” 

He has no chance to answer, as she pulls Mortimer away with her, back into the woods. Mortimer waves him off, so he stays, but he feels uneasy about it. He's not sure, but there was something rather brittle in Betsy's smile, something he didn't like. 

So, instead of going inside, he waits on the steps. 

-

In retrospect, Mortimer should have expected Betsy's fury.

“Bets,” He tries, but he's stopped when she actually slaps him. It doesn't hurt, really, only stings, and he's more shocked than anything else, as he stands there gaping at her. She's breathing hard, her eyes narrowed at him, and before another second passes, she slaps him a second time. 

His patience only runs so far, which isn't very far at all, so he shoves her back, away from him. “The fuck?” 

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you?” She hisses. “You stupid, selfish bastard, what the fuck are you thinking?” This time, it's her that shoves him, not that it does much. “He's a fucking X-Men, and you're, what, doing it for a thrill? Being a terrorist revolutionary isn't enough for you, you have to fuck the enemy too?” 

“He's not an X-Men,” He argues. “He's just a teacher. He's a pacifist.” 

“Oh, believe me, I know that. I saw everything in his head, Mortimer, including the way you've been fawning over him like the stupid cunt you are,” She says. “What's Magneto want with him? He's a shit teleporter, anyone can see that. He can only go as far as he can see, and he's too scared of his own ability to put it to any good. So what the fuck are you using him for?”

He shakes his head. “Go right to hell, bitch,” 

He hits his knees when the pain starts, because the fucking cunt isn't even trying to be gentle as she shoves right into his head, and starts picking through his mind, finding Kurt in there, finding out every little secret he has when it comes to Kurt. She pushes out, leaving him gasping from the sheer agony of it, and before he can react, she kicks him in the ribs. 

“ _Whore_ ,” He spits, trying to catch his breath. 

“I am going to rip out your fucking eyes, you fucking arsehole!” Her voice is high-pitched and angry, hissed through her gritted teeth as she tries to kick him again. He grabs her ankle with his tongue though, and hurls her across, her back hitting a tree with a thump. 

He struggles to his knees, holding himself up as he vomits into the roots of the tree nearby, the pain in his head from her intrusion unbearable. He scrambles across the ground to get away from the sick, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, and lies there, trying to focus through the blinding pain. Oh Christ, he thinks, fucking Christ. Betsy's never been the cleanest telepath to begin with, but this is fucking agony. 

“I hope your head bursts,” He hears, and realizes she's gotten her footing back. She's standing over him a second later, her face twisted and ugly in her rage. “You choose now to have a heart? Now? Over what, him? He's not special, he's a fucking freak with a crucifix, and you figure he's going to be your one true love? Why? Because he's nice to you?” 

“Shut your fucking mouth, you fat cow,” He manages, right before he spits in her face. She screeches, and falls back. He missed her mouth, his vision blurred from his headache, but he got her somewhere. “Fuck you,”

She's wheezing, and he can hear her moving, the scratch of her hands in the dirt, the crunch of leaves under her body. He tries to concentrate on her, tries to keep focused, but god, his head hurts so badly. He wants to curl up in a ball and die. 

But she's got enough spite in her that she gets up again, stumbles over to him. She's using her power, that weird purple light that glows from her fingers sometimes, to crack open the goo he put all over her face and neck. Even through the haze of pain, his night vision is good enough to see it reddening. He'd made it acidic then, just a bit, good for him. 

“You're _pathetic_ ,” She says. “You're just a sad little freak who will do anything for love, aren't you?” She crouches down over him, her eyes glowing with the same light as her hands. “Let me tell you, Toad, when he works out what you are, he's going to leave you so fast, your head will spin. He'll be _disgusted_ that he ever let you touch him.” 

She smiles, cold and sharp, full of loathing. “But I'm just going to let him keep thinking what he's thinking now, you know why?” Her hair brushes his forehead, cool and slippery in the darkness. “Because I want you to be good and in love with him when he does it, so you'll understand just how utterly stupid you are. We're the Brotherhood, you wanker. Love is for people without wars to fight.” 

“You're lying,” He groans, because she is. Bets isn't this cold, not by a long shot, no matter how badly she likes to pretend she is. 

The facade flickers, and she makes a noise of frustration at him. “He's actually a good person, you little shit.” She says. “He's genuinely good. You're just going to fuck him up, and you know it, but you're so damn selfish you can't help yourself.” 

“I know he's good,” He agrees, hating himself. “I know. I know I'm fucking up, but Bets, please, please just leave it.” 

She shakes her head, disgusted with him. “You are not this stupid. You can't possibly believe Magneto is just going to let you fuck one of Xavier's without having an ulterior motive.” 

“He thinks I can get him on our side.”

“He thinks he can _use_ him.” 

“No!” He disagrees vehemently, even as his stomach rolls from the nausea his headaches always bring. “That's not it, there's other shit going on,” He doesn't tell her who Kurt is, blocks that away in his head so she can't see just why it's so important to keep Kurt safe in the coming war. “He likes me near him, but not for what you think.” 

“If you are so fucking thick that you actually believe Magneto gives a shit about your boyfriend, I take back everything I ever said about you being a genius.” She says disdainfully, crossing her arms. “Toad, something about this stinks. You have to know that.” 

If he could just explain, he knows she would see. But he can't betray Mystique like that, both for loyalty and self-preservation. “It's not what you think.” Is all he can say.

“I think it's exactly what I think it is. Something is going on, and you're too blind to see it.” He shakes his head, because she doesn't know, she doesn't, and he can't explain without betraying more than one person in the process. Every movement of his head makes the pain worse, he finds, so he lies still on the frozen ground, though the cold does little to help. “You're fucked up to be doing this, to someone like him. He trusts you, you fucker. He wants to help you.”

That sick feeling he gets when he thinks about that comes back, and combined with his aching skull, he knows he's going to be sick again. “I'm not using him.” 

“That actually makes it worse, git.” 

She leaves him there, gasping into the dirt, as he tries to get himself under control. Long after the sound of her footsteps fade, he finally manages to get to his feet, the pain ebbing at last. It's still awful, but he can function now. 

He's careful as he makes his way back to the house, his vision still flickering with bursts of light. Christ, he hopes she didn't do any real damage. There's a reason the Boss never uses her. Betsy has so little control, no real finesse, that it's not even just him who gets sick from her.

Speaking of.

Whatever is left comes up into the bushes, mostly just stomach acid, unfortunately, and he dry heaves for a minute or so after, his stomach aching from the effort. He needs to get home, the sooner the better, so he can take a painkiller. He still has some left from Lykos, and one will make this stop enough he can sleep. 

Shit though, he's got to get Kurt. 

Kurt finds him instead.

He doesn't even hear him arrive, just feels that tail slide up his arm before the now-familiar hands cup his face. “What is wrong?” He asks, his voice mercifully low. “I could not find you, so I tracked you. Lucky you smoke those things.” Lucky Kurt has enhanced senses too, he thinks. “Your head, then?”

“Betsy is a little hacked off at me,” He thinks that's a bit of an understatement, but what the fuck ever. “Had a go at me.” 

“She hurt you.” Kurt's horrified, shit. Tonight is not going well. “Why would she do that?”

“Long story. Please let me stop talking now.” 

Kurt's fingers on his temples, they soothe away some of the hurt, but not enough. He needs to get home, already, to painkillers, and maybe Kurt's hands, on his neck and skull again. “Let's go then.” He wraps an arm around Mortimer, and guides him, letting him close his eyes partway. 

By the time Kurt gets back out with the messenger bag slung over his shoulder, Mortimer's got himself mostly under control. His vision is clear, at least, and he's sure his reaction time is good enough to ride the bike. 

Kurt doesn't seem so sure. “Do you think you can?” 

“I'll manage. Just don't startle me, or nothing.” A fresh stab of pain overtakes him, and he wishes Kurt could do it. Shit, fuck tutoring, first thing Kurt is learning is how to ride this damn bike. “Anyone say anything inside?”

“Liam is yelling at Betsy. Very loudly. And the woman who was quiet before,”

“Gertrude,”

“Yes, her, she is yelling too, in Russian, but I only know a few words. Something is very wrong, isn't it?” Gertrude carrying on in Russian is never a good thing. Fuck. “Is it me? I have caused the problem?” He hates how Kurt immediately jumps to that conclusion, hates how it easy it is for him to blame himself. 

He cups his face, rubs his thumb over the bran on his cheek. “Not you, dove. It's something I've done.” It's everything he's done in the past few weeks, the decisions he's been making, the _mistakes_. It's everything to do with Kurt, but only in relation to him. “Get on, we need to head back before the gloves come off in there. Damion is not someone you want to be around when he loses his temper.” And it would happen. Shit, it would, the minute Betsy told everyone why she had knocked him on his arse. 

“What have you done?” Kurt is curious, always curious, and for the first time in a long time, he actually wants to come clean with someone, if only to make the sick feeling in his gut dissipate. 

“Please, pet, just get on the bike.” He hands him the helmet, and Kurt thankfully takes it, pulling the strap tight under his chin as he leaps up behind Mortimer. Mortimer's grateful fur the hands on his waist, the warmth of Kurt, heavy and reassuring, before he starts the bike. The noise is grating, but he can get through it for the time it'll take to get home. 

For a second, there's a slice of light across them, the front door opening in the darkness, and he doesn't have to look to know it's Liam there. He barely glances at him, not needing to see the expression on his face to know he's confused, torn. 

He takes off, dirt kicking up under the wheel, before he has to confirm it.

Liam doesn't belong to the Brotherhood. He and the rest of them have always seen Magneto as too extreme, too willing to hurt humans, when Mortimer just doesn't care. But just because he doesn't sit on Mortimer's side of the fence though, doesn't mean he sits on Xavier's. 

He'd never thought Betsy would be here tonight. She never showed up for this kind of thing, didn't even really like Liam. He should have known though, should have known his luck could only hold so long. Someone was going to find out eventually, going to know exactly how much trouble Mortimer was getting into. 

The country roads are dark, thankfully. He makes sure to take the back roads even when they get back into civilization, to avoid the brighter street lights. Even through the tint of his visor, these dim porch lights are almost bright enough to make him cringe, make his stomach turn. He concentrates on his breathing, on Kurt's, closes his eyes at every stop sign, every red light so that he can completely. 

His complex gates have never been more of a welcome sight, and he scans his residency card to open them, relieved. Kurt actually helps him off the bike, straps the helmets down for them, and maybe he would get pissed off at anyone else, but when it's Kurt's hands on his elbow, on his waist, he doesn't mind. 

“Elevator, or stairs? Which is easier?” Kurt's voice is low in his ear. 

“Lift.” 

He stumbles when a sharp stab of pain surfaces, the after-effects of Betsy's clumsiness, but Kurt is there, so he doesn't fall. They're in the lift now, and he feels Kurt guide his head down into his shoulder, protecting him from the harsh light inside. “ _It hurts you so badly_ ,” He says, in German. “ _Why did she do it?_ ” 

“Complicated.” He replies. “She's a shit telepath, is the problem.” 

When they finally get into his flat, Kurt doesn't turn on a single light, not that either of them need it. “What do you need?” Kurt asks, and really, he's not sure what to do with this. No one takes care of him like this, no one cares this much. 

“Orange bottle, by the stove.” He directs, as Kurt lets him go to the bedroom. He changes his clothes, cleans his teeth, and climbs into bed, the pillows blessedly soft against his head, right as Kurt returns with the bottle. He says the name aloud, just to check, and when Mortimer nods, he gets the bottle open, and hands him two with a glass of water. “C'mere, love,” He directs, and soon, Kurt is beside him. 

“What happened tonight?” Kurt asks, as he draws Mortimer's head into his lap, so he can touch, like what he did the night before. He doesn't think it's going to end in sex this time, though. “Why did she do this? Why was everyone so unhappy?”

“Mutant shit.” He hedges, trying to think of a way to spin this all away from the Brotherhood. 

“You're going to have to elaborate a bit more,”

Mortimer tries to explain, but through the pain in his head, it's hard. “Bets hates Xavier.” This is true, and he's angry enough with her to say why. “She was a student of his, when she was a kid. When her brother got lynched by fucking Friends of Humanity though, Xavier wouldn't let her hunt the fuckers down. He tried to make her let it go. Bets couldn't. She left the school.”

Kurt is quiet, his fingers working at Mortimer's temple. “To 'lynch', it means to 'hang', yes?”

“Yes, sweetheart.” He still forgets sometimes. 

“How old was she?” 

“Fourteen.” 

Again, he's quiet, as his tail works into the top of Mortimer's spine, making him groan. “And the others?”

“Liam's too scared to be political. He just wants to keep his head down.” Not that Mortimer blamed him. Liam had grown up in the aftermath of the IRA, and he had explained, once, in the tangled blankets of his bed, how he'd never not been frightened, as a boy. “The rest of them, they have their own reasons. Gertrude, especially, she's got reasons. Gertrude used to work for this organization, called SHIELD,” 

Kurt tenses. Mortimer feels it, but he decides to keep talking, thinking maybe Kurt will explain after. 

“Worked for this man called Stryker.” 

Now Kurt's hands still. He sits up, holds Kurt's eyes. 

“Stryker experimented on her, part of a program he was working on. It's how she got those scars. From another lab rat.” Gertrude had told him after they'd emptied a bottle of vodka between them, her getting more than her fair half, him too scared of her to point it out. 

_“This is what happens when we trust the humans, like that fool Xavier. They treat us like dogs, raise us to fight each other.”_

Kurt is looking away from him, biting his lip. Tentatively, he touches him, fingers on his jaw, and turns him back towards Mortimer. “Do you know Stryker?” 

His golden eyes slide away, so Mortimer dips his own head, forces Kurt to look at him. “Kurt?” 

“I don't want to tell you,” But he takes Mortimer's fingers, and brings them to the back of his neck, where the strange, circular scar sits. Mortimer had assumed it was a part of the other designs, but from the way Kurt cringes in shame, he thinks that was a mistake. “He used a telepath, his son. He used something from his back, the words, I don't,”

“His spinal fluid.” 

It's not the first time he's heard the theory, that certain kinds of telepaths, their spinal fluid might be used as a potential mind control serum. But he's never heard of anyone actually doing it.

“What did he do to you?” Mortimer's almost too scared to ask. 

“I don't remember, for the most part.” He's near tears, and Mortimer doesn't know how to fix it. “He made me hurt people.” He closes his eyes. “The attack on the White House,” 

He already knew this, of course, but he had been confused as to how it had happened. He had assumed mind control of some kind, but knowing exactly what someone had done to him makes him sick. “That wasn't your fault,” He assures him, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, his neck. “That was them. It's always them.” 

“Please don't start blaming every human for him.”

“He wasn't doing it by himself, was he?” Mortimer reminds him. 

Kurt just smiles, sadly. “And it wasn't every human.” 

“How do you exist?” He breathes into his skin. “How does someone like you exist at all?” 

“I don't know.” Kurt shrugs underneath of him. 

He kisses him again, and the slide of his tongue in his mouth, the nip of his fangs, the way he sighs when Mortimer withdraws. It all makes his mind so clouded, so focused on him. Kurt follows him as he falls back, his hands holding Mortimer in place, so they can keep kissing. “Dove,” He mutters, because, despite his doubts, his cock is definitely showing interest, and he's not sure what Kurt wants, if he just wants comfort, or if he wants the other kind of comfort. 

“If I ever want you to stop, I will say stop,” Kurt says into his mouth, his golden eyes half-lidded. “I am not saying stop.” 

“Are you sure?” He replies, right as Kurt's tail slides over the front of his trousers. “Christ, never mind,” He starts on Kurt's shirt, lifting the hem, getting it over his head, so that all the midnight skin is on display. “What do you want?” 

Sly as a cat, Kurt curls against him, so that his lips are by Mortimer's ear. “What is that charming phrase you used? _Vous voulez me donner un turlute_ , is that it?” 

He nods, grinning, as he ducks down to the waistband of Kurt's trousers, undoing the buttons, and pulling them down over his hips. Kurt's hand settles in his hair as he licks the head, using his powerful tongue to push the foreskin back, then wrap around his cock. Kurt's fingers tighten encouragingly as works at it, tightening his tongue in pulses, a trick he's worked on far too much. 

Comes in handy now though, as Kurt moans his name, and pushes on his head. With a smirk, he withdraws his tongue, and Kurt protests, whining above him. Forcefully, he pulls him forward, until Kurt is settled in his lap, and their cocks are lined up, so he can wrap his hand around the two of them. 

“Your tail would come in handy, right now, dove,” 

Kurt makes a pleased noise, and presses into Mortimer's hand. His tail arcs up, then around, the flat of it joining in, exactly what he needs. “I like when you talk to me,” Kurt mutters, into Mortimer's shoulder, like he's embarrassed to admit it.

“What do you mean?” He teases. “You like when I call you gorgeous? Brilliant?” He tightens his arm around Kurt's hips. “Or do you mean when I tell you that no one has ever made me feel like you do, that all you have to do is look at me, and I'm hard, just for you,” 

“ _Ja_ ,” Kurt is making these breathy noises as he rises and falls against Mortimer, thrusting into his hand. 

“Because you do,” He continues. “You make me hard, all I can think of is getting you alone, being with you, touching you,” This seems to be exactly what Kurt wants to hear, as he grins against Mortimer's mouth. “Not a good thing when I'm working, and all I can think about is having you in my lap, my cock in you while you smile at me, like that,” He kisses the corner of Kurt's grin. “Like that, I love that,”

“You've never been inside of me,” Kurt reminds him. 

“Doesn't mean I don't think about it,” Because he does. He thinks about everything, when it comes to Kurt. “I think about us up against a wall, outside, over my desk, everywhere,” He thinks about _everything_. 

Kurt sighs, as he comes against Mortimer's stomach, curling in closer so that Mortimer has his warmth to finish himself. When he does, he presses his lips to Kurt's shoulder, to the sharp brand that sits there, spelling out Gabriel's words, whatever they were. 

They get cleaned up, and settle beside each other, his painkillers finally kicked in enough that he can close his eyes and rest. Kurt's tail follows his spine, up and down, like one would pet a cat, and maybe it should be kind of insulting, but he finds it soothing, comfortable. To just be _touched_ , without any ulterior motive, it's foreign and desirable, and he never wants to lose it. 

“You say you don't agree with Xavier,” Kurt says, breaking the silence. “That is what you told me, remember? And neither do your friends.” Mortimer blinks sleepily at him, trying to think past the haze of post-orgasm bliss, painkillers, and vague nicotine craving. “Who do you agree with, then? You asked what side I was on, but what side are you one?”

He manages to raise a hand, brushing his fingers over Kurt's face. “My own.” He answers, and hopes it's enough.

 

-

 

 

Betsy Braddock is many things.

She is short-tempered, she is at times spoiled, and she is more often than not too quick to assume. Growing up, her parents had given her everything she could have ever asked for, and her and her brothers had ended up with no small sense of entitlement. It had taken about two weeks in a SHIELD cabin in fucking Siberia for her to figure out that entitlement meant shit, in the real world. 

The SHIELD car picks her up about a ten minutes after she makes sure Mortimer and his little elf made it home safely. Her handler, Agent Johnson, is waiting inside, flipping through a file, a mission file, it looks like. She eyes it hopefully, but Daisy raises an eyebrow and shakes her head. 

“Not for you.” She disappoints Betsy, as Betsy slumps in the seat, huffing. “Well? How did it go?”

“Better than we were hoping.” She replies, crossing her legs in a way that would have made her mother's eyes narrow. “Director Fury was correct. Toad is well on his way to complete devotion. Moron. He's always like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“This is how he is. He'll go through the world with his nasty little attitude, right up until he finds something shiny enough to hold his attention. Then it's his.” She smirks, as her handler smiles. “And Kurt is exactly right. He needs attention, and love, just as bad as Toad does. It's almost like...” She trails off, runs her tongue over her lips in contemplation. “It's too good to be chance.”

Daisy raises an eyebrow inquiringly, telling her to continue.

“I'm just speculating.”

“Speculate out loud then.” 

Betsy sighs. “Magneto would have looked into Kurt personally, if he was serious about recruiting him. He would have seen how limited a teleporter he is, he would have seen how Kurt is personality-wise. It's obvious that he'd never be a worthwhile recruit.”

“So why is he letting Toad run around with him?”

“I have my suspicions.” She says. “Toad is a wild card, he always has been. He's loyal to his bones, but if you betray him, you better watch your back, because he will kill.” It's not an exaggeration, it's a fact, and she's seen him carry it out. “Magneto's had insurance on him since the beginning, but I've never known what it is. Toad doesn't seem to realize it, and I can't get in Magneto's head. If I was going to make a guess, I'd say he wants more insurance.” 

“You can't be serious.” Daisy replies, closing the file. “He's Mystique's son. He wouldn't treat him like a courtesan.” 

Betsy scoffs. “You don't know Magneto, what lengths he'll go through to make sure the Brotherhood is completely his.” 

“Is Wagner in on it?”

“Wagner thinks Toad could be his _lover_.” She actually chuckles at the dramatic word. “This is fucking ridiculous. They're both pathetic little creatures that need someone to lick their wounds. You should have seen their heads. It's sickening.” 

Daisy gives her a cool look. “Being in love isn't pathetic, Betsy.” 

“It is when someone is going to use it to manipulate you.”

“That smacks of bitterness, Psylocke.” 

“I'm not bitter about anything.” She sneers, settling back against the leather of the cushions. “Magneto manipulated me, I know it. I fixed it. It's not my fault Toad's too stubborn to realize he's being jerked around like the little puppet he is.”

“Better not let Agent Maximoff hear you talking about him like that.” She warns, going back to her file. 

“She hated him when she was in the Brotherhood. I don't get why she suddenly has to save him.” Betsy stares out the tinted window, mulling it all over. It's stupid. It's childish. But the thing is, Toad is her friend, not the Witch's, and if anyone should be saving the asshole, it's her, not that snobby bitch. But no, Wanda gets to play the sacrificing friend, not her. She has to go shove him around and get in his head, something he hates. 

It's not fair. 

“You sound jealous.” Daisy says, seeming more interested in the file now, than Betsy. “You should try to calm down, before you speak to Director Fury.” 

“Whatever.” She stares out the window, and watches the streetlights as they pass, until they blur.

 

-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Poem quoted is the first few lines of _Fate_ by Carolyn Wells, and though she was an American poet, she was well-known enough that I imagine this universe's version of Toad's mother would have heard of her and recited her to him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Mortimer is so in love, he is, oh fucking hell. Where he talks to the boys, where he talks to Wanda, where he remembers childhood lessons.
> 
> Where Kurt goes to church again and loves Mortimer for giving God back to him.
> 
> Where SHIELD makes plans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N Also, I return
> 
> I already returned to _Young Justice_ , and here's the thing. I'll write a million fics for whatever fandom is shiny and new. I will.
> 
> But Thistle & Weeds? This is my baby. Nothing will take away my love for it.
> 
> Want to know me a bit better? Want to submit prompts? [March Rabbit](http://themarchrabbit.tumblr.com/) is where you need to go. I will answer what I can, fill what I am able. Promise.

Mortimer's phone wakes him. 

It's not even dawn yet, but already, he's craving a cigarette, and the incessant buzzing of the phone isn't helping anything. He can't stay in bed, not even with Kurt pressed up against his back like this, tail around his waist. It squeezes him when he climbs out, Kurt snuffling and burying his face in the pillow Mortimer leaves.

Something in his chest squeezes at the sight. Jesus, what has he gotten himself into?

He takes the phone and leaves the bedroom, careful to keep quiet so Kurt stays asleep. It's still buzzing, but it can wait until he's gotten some caffeine and nicotine in him, enough he can deal with what he knows is coming. 

Once he's out on the balcony, he lights up, and starts skimming. Missed calls from everyone, texts in garbled Russian, English, Spanish, Arabic, none happy. Sarah's, the mix of English and Spanish, are the most sympathetic, telling him not to listen to anyone else, they're just being unreasonable. Liam's are the worst, the ones that make him almost guilty. They're restrained, understanding, _-I like him dont worry over it-_. 

Christ. 

The phone starts buzzing again, and he picks up. 

“So, what's this I hear about a boyfriend?” It's not a tease. It's Wanda, and she sounds even more tired. 

Mortimer sighs, takes a drag. “Who told you?” His money is on Sarah. She's always had a bit of hero worship going on for Wanda, little brat. “And why do you give a shit?”

“My father is starting a war, and you see this as the time to get yourself a boyfriend?” She sighs now, like they're taking turns, and he takes another drag, exhales long and slow, hoping the nicotine hits him quick. This is too much for him to deal with in one week. “Mort, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

He slides down to sit on the cold bench, pulling his legs up to his chest. “I couldn't stay away from him. I couldn't even try.” No point in lying to her. 

“How's Liam taking it?”

Because the first emotion he wanted to feel this morning was intense fucking irritation. “Liam likes him.”

“Bullshit, and you know it. Liam's playing the wounded card and everyone is up in arms at you, aren't they?” He takes a drag in response, because fuck her and her stupid ability to know everything about anything involving him and his personal life. “Why are you still hanging around him? Are you that socially awkward you can't see how messed up your relationship with each other is? And you're bringing your new boyfriend, who, according to my source, you're completely stupid over, to his house?” She actually laughs. 

“Bitch.” He mutters, out of habit. 

She keeps laughing. “Oh god, I can't even. You're so fucked up, do you even know that? Oh my god.”

He scowls, even though she can't see him, his phone buzzing in his hand when he gets a few more texts. He's cold as fuck, sitting out here, is probably going to end up asleep again if he doesn't start moving or turn the outdoor heater on. 

“Mort,” she starts, stops, takes a breath. “Mort, you've never brought anyone around them before.”

He fiddles with his cigarette, says nothing.

“I'm just wondering what's going on here, exactly.” She says. 

He turns on the outdoor heater, sits back. Takes another drag. “I think you'll like him.”

She's silent for a second, then sighs. “Oh shit. Mort, you can't be serious. Everything that's going on. _Everything_. And it's now? You find someone now? Can't you do anything right?”

“Says the stupid cow who got knocked up while she was working for a terrorist group. By the enemy.” He points out nastily, rolling his shoulders against the icy ironwork. “It wasn't supposed to happen. I just...I looked at him, and I couldn't stop myself. Christ, Wanda, I thought Bets was going to tear my head off, she was so pissed off at me.” He shakes his head, tilts it back so he's staring up at the ceiling. “I don't know what I'm doing.”

“Yeah.” She replies, quiet. So quiet. “I'm seeing that. Might know something that'll cheer you up though.”

He frowns. “What?”

He hears movement, a child's voice, and then, “Mort?” 

That same something that twists when he looks at Kurt, it lights up, and he grins at the phone. “Hey Tommy.” 

“Mort!” And just like that, he's off, talking a mile a minute about how good he's gotten, how he's got all these new teachers who are showing him new styles, but none will let him play with the staff like Mort does, it's not fair, they say he's too little, he only asked the instructor like, three times, and will Mort please come visit? “I miss you.” He says. “Did you see _Brave_? Can you shoot a bow and arrow? I want to shoot a bow and arrow. Clint tried to teach me, but Mummy stopped him, she said it was, it was,” he stumbles, “In-ah-pro-pree-it”

“Inappropriate.” He says, Tommy's confused accent making the word sound strange. “Who is that? Clint?”

“He's Mummy's friend, only she doesn't like him, but he comes with Mr. Phil a lot, so she has to see him, and he was going to teach me, but then Billy went and told on me,”

“Did he now?” That sounds like Billy. “I don't know how to use a bow too good, sorry.” He could learn quickly enough, he supposes. “Make a deal with you though, you do as your Mum says til I see you, I'll have a present for you.” 

“What?” He demands, and Mort chuckles. 

“It's a surprise.” He can't risk telling Tommy, he'll tell Wanda, whether on purpose or by accident, and she'll veto what he has in mind so fast his head will spin. And he is seeing the boys, no mistake, no matter what Wanda is getting up to with SHIELD and Fury. If he fucks up this relationship, he's well aware of what he's losing, what he'd be doing to his mum and his dad. “Your brother there?”

“Yeah, hold on, I'll get him, love you!” And then the phone is passed over.

“Hi Mort.” Billy's calmer voice comes on. “Are you going to come see us?”

“As soon as I can.” He sighs, prays he's not lying as he takes a drag. “I'll bring presents, I promise. Anything you want.” 

Billy makes a sound he can't quite hear, then says, “I miss you.” 

Of course he does, quiet little kid like Billy with a twin like Tommy. Tommy is an attention-grabber, whether he means to be or not, loud and bright and good-natured. Billy is just as good-natured, but more likely to fade into the background, and too smart for most people. Mortimer's tried his best to be good to him, pay him extra attention, make sure the presents he brings are what Billy wants, not something he thinks Tommy would like. “Miss you too.” And he does, misses both boys. It's easy, with them. They like him just fine as is. 

“Will you bring me some books?” He asks. “Like the ones you got me for Christmas?” 

“Yeah, no problem.” Definitely not on Wanda's approved reading list for the boys, but then, what else is he good for if not to make the boys deliriously happy while driving Wanda 'round the bend at the same time? “Any other requests? I'll get you anything you like. You got a birthday coming up, after all.” 

“Are you going to be there?”

“I missed one yet?” He asks, taking a long drag. “I'll be there. Promise.” It's a bad idea, he knows that. He shouldn't make promises he doesn't know if he can keep to the boys, but he doesn't know if he can stand telling him what he told Wanda, that he's not sure about what exactly is going on here. “Maybe before, yeah?” 

“Okay.” Billy says. “Are you okay? I've only moved Tommy before. You're bigger. And heavier.” 

“You got me out. That's what's important.” He says, instead of lying. He doesn't want Billy to think he hurt him, even though he did. The kid already feels inadequate next to Tommy, he doesn't need Mortimer making him feel bad. “How's you're training going? You with your brother, or someone else?”

The door slides open, and Kurt pokes his sleepy head out. Without saying anything, he crawls over the side of the bench and into Mortimer's space, Mortimer lifting the arm not holding the phone so he could slide up against him, bury his face in Mortimer's shoulder. He's so warm, feels like a furnace against him. 

“Someone else. Tommy's powers are different from mine. And they won't let me do combat training now.”

Mortimer frowns. “Why not?” Billy's not as good as Tommy, Tommy's physical mutation giving him an edge, but he's pretty good for a kid so young. “You don't want to anymore?”

“They said it's not a good idea. Because of my power.” 

Now he's angry all over again, at anyone treating Billy like he can't handle himself. Kid is smart, and he managed to teleport Mortimer, a full grown adult, up through all the levels, without accompanying him. He's a quick study, to go by that. “What's their reason, then?”

“They say my power is too unstable.”

“That's bollocks.” Mortimer dismisses. “Your control is just fine. I'll train you when I get there, how about that?”

Billy is smiling. He knows without seeing him. “Will you show me how you do that trick with the staff now?”

His trick with the staff is the twirls he can do as easy as breathing, the ones that impress the boys like he's doing magic. He grins, “Yeah, I'll teach you.”

“Do you want to talk to Mummy again?”

She's holding out her hand for the phone then, his time with them up. It's flat-out bribery, he knows, but he doesn't care. “Yeah, put your mum on.” 

“Love you, Mort.”

“You too.” He replies, before he hears the phone switch hands, and Wanda's voice comes back. “Why aren't they letting Billy train?”

She huffs. “Fury doesn't want to risk him blowing us all sky high if he forgets what he's doing.”

“He's not you, Wanda, Billy's got a handle on his temper.” Wanda had blown more than one tree into splinters with her explosive temper while they had been in the Brotherhood together, and sometimes Mortimer had to question his survival instincts with how much he'd antagonized her, but she just kept touching his shit and calling him names, and he hadn't been the brightest teenager, had he? He'd given back as good as he'd gotten, in any case. “Don't treat him like he's a bomb about to off, or he's going to think he is.” Which isn't good. If Billy thinks he doesn't have control, he'll lose it. 

“Don't tell me how to raise my kid, Mort.” Wanda warns. 

“Then raise your kid right.” He snaps, earning himself a sigh, and likely an eye roll. He knows Wanda too well. Beside him, Kurt blinks at him sleepily. 

“What is going on?” He asks, his accent garbling the English when he mutters. 

Wanda is quiet, and then, “If you think we're not going to be discussing your life choices when we talk about mine, trust me, you have another thing coming Mort.” Oh, and he was already _so_ looking forward to Tuesday. Shit, this is not a good idea. If Magneto ever finds out about what he did for Wanda, if he ever finds out Mortimer is even considering listening to her right now, he'll be so fucked there's not even a word for it. He doesn't know what else to do though. He can't give up Wanda and he can't give up the Brotherhood, and fucking Christ, could he get a break? Just this once? 

“Looking forward to it.” He says, right as his cigarette hits the filter. Annoyed, he stubs it out and grabs another out of the table holder, lighting it up. 

“Two cigarettes in less than an hour?” 

“God, I'm so fucking tired of you.” The next drag does nothing for him, her getting his back up like she always does. “You got anything else you want to get after me for? Coffee? My hair? Buying skim milk?”

“You know you need whole milk for your metabolism.” She mutters, and he swears at her, now really earning a raised eyebrow from Kurt. “You're smoking too much, and you know it. That's why you're snapping. Shit, Mort, your healing factor isn't strong enough for what you're going through in a day. Do you want to die? You can get cancer, you know, you fucking idiot.” 

Mortimer groans. “Christ, just _shut up_ already, you bitch. I'm not a kid, I'll smoke however much I want, and you can just fuck right off.”

“You're so charming.” She sneers from her end. “I have never understood your appeal. Never.”

“I can't believe someone bred with you.” He replies, shifting as Kurt changes position against him. 

“Yeah, well, the world is just happy you're gay.” She sounds self-satisfied at that one, and Mortimer smirks. 

“Surrogacy.” He reminds her.

“And now I'm going to have nightmares.” He can hear her moving around, wherever she is. A tap running, a closet opening. “Mort, on Tuesday, please show. Please just hear me out. I promise you, I'm not trying to screw you over. I'm not.” 

And he believes that. He thinks. Mostly. He's not sure. He doesn't know what to believe at all right now, actually. Wanda loves him, he's sure he knows that, and he loves her, loves her family. He doesn't think Wanda will hurt him, but there are reasons she might, and what if this is a trap? Christ, what if they're threatening the kids? What if they're controlling her somehow? There's a million what-ifs here, and they could all end badly for him, for Wanda, for the boys. 

For Kurt.

Fuck. 

He can feel a tension headache coming on. “I'll see you Tuesday.”

“Okay.” There's more noise. “Shit, Mort, I've got to go. Look, I love you, okay?” That feeling again, fuck. “I do. You have to know that. I'm just looking out for you, alright? I'm looking out for _you_ , not my father or the rest of them. I want you to get old, do you understand? You're going to get old and spoil the boys rotten, and I am going to be screaming at you for your epic stupidity until the end of time, okay?”

“Wanda,”

“ _No_ ,” she says emphatically. “No. Just...just trust me, Mort. Please. Be there.”

He waits, considers it all, and then.

He looks at Kurt, staring out at nothing, sleepy, tucked up under his arm, and he knows, he knows he won't keep this from Kurt forever. He'll find out about the Brotherhood one day, and when he does, Mortimer is as good as done.

Why is Wanda with SHIELD?

He doesn't know what's right anymore. He just doesn't. He still believes in everything Magneto talked about, all those years ago, still believes humans are going to die out, that his lot, they deserve the world, and everything. Just everything.

But he's tired, and he's scarred, and he doesn't know about some of this anymore.

“I'll see you then.” He says, and hangs up before she can add another word. He's got more texts from everyone, one from Mystique even, reminding him she wants him to check the security on the lesser-used areas of the compound. Thornn and Feral are supposed to be here by tomorrow night, and they need a place to sleep that Sabretooth can't get into. 

Magneto acts like Sabretooth is trustworthy, but Mystique and Toad know better. 

Kurt curls into him tighter. “Want to go inside? Get breakfast?” He asks, looking hopeful. “Or we could go out before I go to service.” 

Mortimer shakes his head. “I need to train first.” He kisses the top of his head. “Get yourself ready, and I'll take you, alright?” 

Kurt kisses him on the mouth, before leaping off, bounding into the apartment, while Mortimer finishes his cigarette. Lord, he needs to run. 

He runs hard, through the woods, not the trail, til he feels like his lungs are going to burst into pieces. Tile every muscle in his body burns so hard it aches to the marrow. 

He comes back, showers, and by then, Kurt's ready, smiling, happy, gentle as a dove.

And he thinks of Magneto.

And he hears, like a long-forgotten song _and the meek shall inherit the Earth_.

-

 

Fury waits, as his handlers and their charges gather in the office. Forge, his handler Hill keeping a safe distance, Wanda and Victor, Coulson, and Braddock, with Agent Johnson. Braddock looks pissed off at something, which isn't unusual when she's in the room with Maximoff. There's something going on there that he'll probably have to deal with, eventually. Hopefully not today. 

Braddock speaks first. “We're not the only ones keeping tabs on Toad.” She examines her nails, a bratty affectation that's more for her pretense at being nonchalant. “Domino is lurking around, with a camera.” 

Wanda shakes her head. “I knew it. My father is pulling the strings, as always.” 

Braddock rolls her eyes. “Oh, gee, your daddy is screwing someone over, what a _shock_. And look, it's Toad getting kicked around! Another shocking turn of events!” Johnson is trying to silence her, but Braddock wants to talk, and when she wants to, a herd of wild horses couldn't shut her mouth. “Magneto's been pulling Toad's strings since he was seventeen. He's turned him into this crazy, paranoid terrorist, and now he's making sure he's got a strong enough chain for his dog. Cue Wagner.” 

“Trust me, Mort was pretty damn crazy and paranoid long before my father found him.” Wanda refutes, sneering. “Do you know how many times he was nearly kicked out of school? Mort has always been angry and fucked up. How could he not be? My father just saw how to twist that anger into something useful to him.” She shakes her head. “I love Mort, don't get me wrong. But he's no angel.” 

“He's no one's dog either.” Braddock sneers right back at Wanda. “Isn't that what you used to call him? Your daddy's pit bull?” 

Wanda's at the end of her temper, but Victor handles it before Fury can say a word. He places a hand on his wife's lower back, enough to remind her that this is not the time to get into it with Braddock. She quiets, but she's glaring daggers at Braddock, a reminder that this conversation is far from over. 

Coulson, ever the Marine, does not really change position, his stance steady, hands clasped in front of him. Somehow though, he gets the attention of the people in the room. It's a curious skill that Fury's never been able to work out. “I think that everyone in this room is overlooking the big picture here.” He says, face still calm and without expression. “Magneto is using Wagner to get a new hold on Toad. We know he's always planned on using his family as his trump card, if necessary. Why the new insurance?” 

Both Wanda and Braddock frown, but the former's is more calculating. She's trying to understand her father's play, what his end game is. 

Coulson continues. “Wagner is Mystique's son. And Azazel's, obviously. The child of two members of the Brotherhood, and he's pairing him off with his 'pit bull', so to speak. Why? What is his end game here? Wagner is important to more than one person in his Brotherhood, and he wants to pull him close.” Coulson frowns. “I don't think it's just Toad he's trying to manipulate.” 

“Elaborate.” Fury commands. He trusts Coulson and his judgment more than anyone else in this room. Coulson has no personal stake in this, and he has no gain professionally. More than that, Coulson has the uncanny ability to see through people. No matter what they say, what they do, he always knows their true intentions. Probably a result of the military training, whatever it was. Even Fury can't see everything, especially not in the secretive Marine Corps. 

Coulson purses his lips. “Mystique is getting older. She might be looking at retirement with Ms. Adler now. And Magneto wouldn't like that.” 

“He can't afford to lose her.” Braddock says, shaking her head. “Not Mystique. She's his most loyal follower, and she's got skills that you wouldn't believe. No way he'll let her leave him. Especially not for Adler.”

Fury looks between Maximoff and Braddock. “Why?”

It's Maximoff who answers. “Adler sees the future, like we told you. Magneto tried to recruit her, Adler told him to fuck off. That was how her and Mystique met. Mystique fell in love with her, apparently. She has been ever since. It's one of the few times she's ever defied my father.” 

“Magneto hates her. He thinks Mystique ended the relationship years ago.” Braddock says, sounding afraid. “Or he pretended to believe her. I don't know.” Fury had once upon a time believed that recruiting a telepath from the Brotherhood would be all he needed. But of course, Braddock had turned out to be a shitty one who couldn't get into Magneto's skull with a crowbar. Her telekinetic abilities were great, of course, and her connections were an asset, but she hadn't been the trump card he'd hoped for. “He might be planning on using Kurt against her too.”

Fury sighs. “How will Mystique react to her son fucking Toad?”

“Not well.” Maximoff says, and Braddock looks like she agrees. “She likes Mort well enough, but she won't like this. Not at all. And she'll see what Mort is blind to, that Magneto is using Kurt like a pawn.”

“We need to get Toad on our side, the sooner the better.” Braddock says. “Once he's over in SHIELD where he belongs, he'll be safe, and so will Wagner. Mystique won't do a thing if she knows SHIELD is protecting her son. She hates this place more than anything, but I think she's more concerned about his safety than anything else. She let him be taken away from her to keep him away from the Brotherhood. She knew even then that Magneto was dangerous. She didn't even hesitate with the girl.”

“So how does Toad factor in?” Fury asks 

“She'll hate it at first. But Toad is like a pit bull, like I said. If he loves Kurt, Mystique won't get in the middle. She knows he'll protect Kurt with his life.” Maximoff says, frowning again. It makes her look older when she does. “She'll back off quickly. If she thinks Magneto will hurt her son though, I don't know what she'll do exactly.”

“She was willing to let Rogue die.” Fury points out. “That doesn't sound maternal.”

Maximoff and Braddock exchange a look he can't read. “Here's the thing,” Braddock says. 

“My father knows who the Rogue is, I'm sure of it.” Maximoff says. 

“But Mystique stopped checking on her about twelve years ago.” Braddock continues. “She loved her very much, and it got to be too painful, watching yet another child call someone else 'Mommy'. She withdrew.” 

Fury almost can't believe it. “Are you telling me Mystique has no idea who Rogue is?” Maximoff and Braddock exchange another look that he can't understand. “Are you telling me Magneto used Mystique to facilitate her own daughter's murder without her knowledge?”

“We've tried to tell you, sir.” Braddock says. 

Maximoff's husband is touching her again, the small of her back, as she looks past him. “You have no idea just what he is capable of.”

-

Sunday morning dawns, and Kurt stands in front of a cathedral for the first time in too long. He stands alone, because Mortimer sits in the cafe across the street with his tablet, refusing to come even when Kurt asked nicely. He leaves him there, because strong as his love for his God is, he knows that if he wants to continue this affair with Mortimer, he must accept that Mortimer holds no love for any god at all. 

It truly does not bother him, but he wishes it were not so right now, if only because he is afraid of what he is about to do. Mortimer refuses to change his hair color, but the suit he wears is programmed by the other man. Underneath, he wears a long sleeved shirt and trousers. A suit will never fit him and his strange frame. 

The bells ring, and he enters, the people around him not noticing him, except for his indigo hair. But the looks are curious, not hostile. They think he's an artist, or something like that. It's a benevolent amusement, his youth earning him forgiveness. 

The stained glass inside depicts various scenes of angels. Michael, defeating Lucifer, Gabriel blowing his horn. He sees them all, their names below in curling script. He sits in a pew beside the angel Rafael, holding his staff, his expression calm, even etched in metal and colored glass. He looks down on Kurt in the pew with half-lidded eyes that seem to say, _where have you been?_ , but without condemnation, only gentle curiousity, 

_I have been praying_ , he answers, with a smile. Praying and waiting for this day. 

“The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Spirit be with you all,” the priest says. 

“And with your spirit.” Kurt says, with the rest of the congregation, his heart singing.

But it isn't until the priest says, “Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world, blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb,” and Kurt can reply, with rest of them,

“Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed,” and Kurt kneels before him, for the wafer to be given, and the wine drunk, that he finally feels like he's right with God. The Father loves him, he knows, and understands why Kurt has been absent for so long, but he feels his soul lift with the promise of God's eternal love. 

When it is over, with a gentle, “The Lord be with you,” from the father, and their reply of “And with your spirit,” he joins Mortimer across the street in the cafe. The man is playing a game on his tablet, and he doesn't see Kurt until Kurt covers his eyes with his hands. 

Mortimer frowns. “Love, that doesn't work with hands like yours.” 

Kurt grins, and kisses him on the cheek. “I never said 'guess'.” 

“True.” Mortimer says, and turns to kiss him on the mouth, but he's distracted. It's not a game, Kurt realizes, when he looks at the tablet more closely. It's some kind of map, and when Mortimer taps the screen, it falls out to show the outside of a building. 

“Where is that?” Kurt asks, leaning over his shoulder. 

“Boston.” He answers. “This is the house of an associate of mine. She runs a school for the gifted. She asked me to update the security system. And when I say asked, I mean she ordered me to.” Mortimer sounds upset about that, so Kurt nuzzles into his hair to make him happier. 

“How can she order you to?” He questions. 

Mortimer makes a sound like a laugh and a snort mixed together. “One day, you'll meet her, and you will never ask that question again.” He closes out the program on the tablet, so it's the home page again. “How was service?” 

“Very good.” Kurt says, the glow in his heart from it still burning. “It would have been better with you there.” It's a tease, and Mortimer knows it, judging from the way his lips quirk in a sly smirk. Kurt takes the seat across from him, as his stomach growls in response to the smell of breakfast. He's still a little thrilled over it all, over no one staring at him, barely a second glance passed over his hair. “Did you eat?” 

“No, was waiting for you.” Mortimer hitches his chin at the coffee mug beside him on the table. “Go get something.” 

“What do you want?” Kurt is eager to go up to the counter, and actually order something. He's done it before, of course, but he's always been terrified of the simple action, scared he'd be refused service, or sneered at. But now, thanks to the man in front of him, he can. 

“They have scones?” He peers around some people to the counter. “Some of those. More coffee.” He's barely paying attention, as something alerts him on the tablet. He clicks something, and suddenly, there's a woman's face filling the screen. She's older, but still very beautiful, blonde and blue-eyed, with pale white skin. “Frost, I swear to fucking Christ, if you don't stop irritating me, I will come up to fucking Boston, and-”

“You'll do what?” She cuts him off. Her accent is crisp, and strange. He can't place it, but he's sure it's American. “Please, finish that sentence, Mortimer. I dare you.” 

Mortimer scowls at her, but clearly hears the threat that even Kurt notices. “I'm not done. I have a life, you know. One that doesn't revolve around you.” It's the most polite he's ever heard Mortimer speak to someone he clearly despises, but he can almost hear the missing words that Mortimer is dying to say. 

“Considering what I'm paying you, your disgusting little life does need to revolve around me and my needs.” She says, in a very clipped tone. 

“What's wrong, Frost? Angel not doing her job right?” Mortimer asks, smiling in a cruelly mocking way. 

“Keep talking, Mortimer, and I promise those will be words you regret.” 

The other man sneers, and this conversation is spiraling down into sniping and barely veiled threats that he's unsure of the true intent of. Either way, he's heard enough for today, and watching Mortimer be mean isn't exactly fun for him. So he stands and goes to the counter. 

He has enough money in his pocket for plenty, so he orders a pot of coffee, a few of the scones Mortimer wanted, fruit, and a few other items. Mortimer is probably starving after his training, and so is Kurt. The both of them need to eat more than most people, and Mortimer seems to need reminding of that when he's busy. 

“It'll be at your table in a moment, sir.” The clerk says. She eyes where Kurt came from, her lip curling. “You friends with that guy?” She must not have seen them kiss, if she's asking, so Kurt just nods. “You know what he is, right? That's not hair dye. He's a mutant.” 

He feels a lump form in his throat, and he swallows hard. “I know what he is.” He means to sound defensive and firm, but it comes out scared. “Could you make sure there is some lemon curd on the tray, for the scones?” 

“Of course.” She says, her polite smile turning brittle. “It'll be right out.” 

“Thank you.” Kurt wants to be back with Mortimer now, and he feels silly for it, because he knows this clerk can't hurt him. There's nothing she can do to him, and as far as he can tell, she has no idea what he is. 

But he has always hated being alone in public, and a hologram won't change an ingrained instinct overnight. So he goes back to him, just in time to hear a more civil conversation between him and the woman he called Frost. “Fine,” he's saying, in a calmer voice. “Send over the new specifications, I'll try to work them in.” 

“'Try' isn't good enough.” Frost replies. “I want those security measures.” 

“Yeah, well, I can't work miracles. There's only so much modification I can do, unless you want to tear the place down and have me build you a fortress.” Mortimer doesn't sound like he likes that idea, but he can hear the considering noise Frost makes. “Oh, come on, it was a joke,” Mortimer whines, sliding down in his chair in a show of his terrible posture. “I don't want to do that, Frost, I hate you and don't particularly want to spend weeks on end in your company.”

“Sit up straight.” Frost says, and Kurt snickers, earning him a scowl. “Your hostility towards me has ceased being amusing. I have no idea why you insist on behaving the way you do, nor do I care, but if I tell you to come here and follow my every little order, you will do as I say, and you will do it with a degree of decorum that befits my academy. Am I understood?” 

For a second, he thinks Mortimer is going to snap at her, but he schools his face into a more neutral expression, and nods tightly. “Understood.” 

“Good boy.” She praises, like one would a pet, and then she apparently hangs up. Mortimer very carefully sets the tablet down, and pinches the bridge of his nose, as Kurt starts laughing. 

“I. Hate. Her.” He grits out. “If she didn't have more money than a fucking god, I would block her damn calls.” 

Kurt is still laughing, and now Mortimer turns his aggravation on him. “Don't be cross with me because your employers don't like your mouth.” He leans across the table, his feet up on the chair now so he's sitting comfortably. “The food will be out in a minute. I'm going to go change.” He means the hologram, so he's not in the programmed suit anymore, but he takes the messenger bag to cover for himself. 

Mortimer is sulking now, but Kurt figures he can change that in a few minutes. His moods are mercurial, but the change can be controlled easily. The bathrooms are single, thankfully, so Kurt only does what Mortimer showed him earlier, and changes the hologram to show his real clothing. For a moment, he briefly considers taking away the whole thing, but that girl's reaction to someone like Mortimer is enough for him to shelve the idea. 

One day, he promises himself. One day he will not be afraid to show his real face to the world. But until then, this is the face they will see. 

He goes back out, to find the girl from before placing the tray on the table. Kurt takes his seat, and smiles at her, but she's got her eyes on Mortimer. The man is back on the tablet, frowning at it. “Are you fucking kidding me,” he mutters. When he sees Kurt, he gestures at the thing. “This cow has lost her mind! These aren't upgrades, she wants me to rebuild half the system! I'm actually going to have to go to Boston to handle this.”

The girl leaves their table without incident, and Kurt takes an apple. “I love Boston.” He says, smiling. “It's very beautiful. The churches are lovely.” 

“Of course that's what you care about.” Mortimer says, finding a scone for himself. He slices it open and spreads lemon curd on. “Are you happy?” It's an honest question, his expression a little anxious as he looks up at Kurt from under his lashes. 

“Very much so.” He bites his lip to keep his smile from growing, as looks at the man across from him. He's so strange, yet so much like Kurt. When Mortimer looks at him like this, he's like a little boy desperate for approval, and Kurt is only too happy to give it to him. He wants to fill up the empty spaces inside Mortimer that the world has left gaping with its lack of love. “Thank you. I know you don't have any care for God, but,”

“You do.” Mortimer says, shrugging. “Doesn't matter how I feel. I figured service was the first place you would go.” He laughs. “Instead you go to the cinema with me, and then crawl back into my bed.” His face is almost shy, as he watches Kurt. “Still can't believe you're in it at all.” 

Kurt lets his tail out, under the table, and wraps it around Mortimer's leg. “I thought you believed in what you could see?” 

“I can't see you right now.” Mortimer says, smiling, but his eyes are a little sad. “It's so strange, talking to you like this. I didn't realize how weird it would be when I designed it.” He shrugs. “I like it better when I'm actually looking at you.”

“I know.” Kurt reaches across the table to touch his hand, so Mortimer feels the two fingers. “When we go back, it'll be my face, I promise. I need to thank you for this properly, anyway.” 

“By defying God's laws.” Mortimer says, raising his eyebrows in interest. “You that eager to go back to confession?” 

Kurt takes an orange slice. “I need something to confess to.” He says airily, and Mortimer laughs, finally relaxing.

They finish breakfast, and there are no more calls from the woman. Mortimer packs his things away, and they walk down the street, Kurt looping his arm through Mortimer's as they do so. He dares to lean his head on his shoulder, and even when people's eyes linger on them too long, he doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. 

“You have anywhere else you want to go?” Mortimer asks. 

“Can we go to the art shop?” Kurt is excited at the idea, and when Mortimer nods, he squeezes his arm enthusiastically. “I want ink. And charcoal.” There's an art room at the Institute of course, but those things aren't his. He wants his own again. “And paint. Lots of paint.” 

“Where are you planning on putting all of this?” Mortimer is letting him hold on to him without argument, and Kurt is happy for it. He loves physical touch, and he gets so little of it. It has been the same for Mortimer, he suspects. 

“Back to the Institute.” Kurt answers, but he hears what Mortimer wants to know. “Of course, some of it could stay at the apartment, maybe. So I wouldn't have to drag it back and forth.” Just suggesting it is enough to earn a pleased smile from Mortimer, and he squeezes his arm again, not even bothering to fight the smile. 

The art shop is small, but fully stocked. It smells like paint and paper. The woman behind the counter nods in acknowledgment, as Kurt grabs a hand basket and scurries off. He needs paper first, proper paper, and he grabs two different sketch pads, then turns to the charcoal. A package of vine and a package of compressed join the paper, and then pencils, and watercolors, and brushes, choosing all that he needs, and ink. 

Mortimer watches with vague interest, as Kurt hands him the basket while he grabs more ink. He's missed it so much, and now that he has the chance to have it back, he's not missing the opportunity. Now the other man is inspecting the pencils, and he grabs a pack for himself. “Do you draw?” Kurt asks. 

“No.” Mortimer shakes his head. “I like to sketch out my initial plans though. Helps me get it straight.” He's holding Kurt's basket without complaint, but he guesses the weight is nothing to him. It's more that he's doing a chore he's not obligated to do for Kurt that makes him kiss him on the cheek before he bounces back to the supplies. “What was that for?” 

“Because I like to kiss you.” Kurt says, as Mortimer's free arm slips around his waist. Kurt feels him press a kiss to his hair, and then the spot behind his ear that makes a little shiver skate down his spine. “Should we be this public?” He's used to confrontations, but he doesn't want to see Mortimer have one. Kurt's first reaction is to run. That's not Mortimer's, he suspects. 

“Hate to say it, love, but anywhere you go with me is going to be pretty public.” He smells like cigarettes, this close. He must have been smoking while Kurt was in service. Kurt knows he should hate the smell, but he's come to associate it with Mortimer now, with his smile and his cool skin. “I'm thinking of starting a new tattoo.” 

“Of what?” Kurt asks, his mind already going off of what's already worked into Mortimer's skin, adding on so that it covers his shoulders. 

Mortimer shrugs. “Don't know yet. Never do. You got an idea?” 

“Maybe.” Kurt feels him bury his face in his hair. “What is it?”

“It's weird. You smell like my cigarettes.”

“Because your clothes smell like them.” Kurt replies, a teasing lecture. 

Mortimer's arm tightens around him. “Stop stealing them then.” He growls, making Kurt laugh. “You're such a little klepto. Did you learn that in the circus?” Kurt just grins, as Mortimer pulls away. “Let's pay and leave. I hate being out with normals. Stupid bint at the cafe was glaring at me the whole damn time.” 

“Don't be cruel.” Kurt reminds him, as he puts his things on the counter. “She's young, and she has been misled.” When the other man just scowls, Kurt glares at him. “Would you like to be judged based on the things you thought when you were seventeen?”

The clerk scoffs. “I know I wouldn't.” 

Kurt smiles, and Mortimer sulks at the both of them. “She will grow, and she will learn, as we all do.” Before Kurt can pay, Mortimer does, his hands faster at the exchange. “I can buy it!”

“Sweetheart, I can spend Frost's money on you, or I can spend it on the bike. Which do you prefer?” Mortimer asks, giving him a smile, one that only tugged up one side of his mouth. “Besides, if I don't make you financially dependent on me, you'll just leave me.” 

He can't help but kiss him on the cheek, makes no effort at all to fight down this happiness he feels when Mortimer teases him, when he relaxes enough to smile like this. The more cracks he sees, the more he knows he's right when he suspects that this version of Mortimer isn't the one anyone else knows. The behavior of his friends the night before, the way they'd been so unsettled by the way Mortimer had treated him 

He thinks of these things.

And then he curls into Mortimer.

And thinks of nothing but love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? Criticism?


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt meets Dr. Reyes, and tries to offer comfort where he can to the young students of the manor. 
> 
> Mortimer welcomes old friends Thornn and Feral.
> 
> And Wanda, well. Wanda tries to save her friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N There's too many fandoms in my head, and I'm slowly going insane.

Kurt is in the middle of his algebra lecture when Dr. Reyes arrives, the shouting she brings so loud that he doesn't even try to get his students' attention back on factoring, as they all, him included, stare wide-eyed at the open arch that leads to this classroom. The voices carry far too easily through it, enough they can all make out almost every word coming from down the hall. 

The unfamiliar voice of a woman is swearing profusely, and when he hears a sharp rebuke of _“Cecilia,”_ from Ororo, raised, angry, and frantic, he presumes that Dr. Cecilia Reyes has finally shown up. The other voices are Alex's and one that he takes a moment to recognize as Logan's. He's back then as well, far ahead of schedule. 

“Stay here,” he orders them, for all the good it will do, and leaves to see just what is going on.

He follows the voices down the hall, to the open door of the small, private study the teachers use for meetings. Everyone is there, from Ororo and Logan, to a small, dark-skinned woman with short, tight dreadlocks pulled back from her face that he assumes is Dr. Reyes.  
Except Scott is absent, he notes.

“He's _depressed_!” Dr. Reyes is all but screaming, as Kurt hurriedly shuts the door to make the conversation more private. The students do not need to hear this, he decides immediately. “You're so obsessed with remaining secret you're willing to compromise his health, his actual sanity! Have you all lost your minds!” She turns on Alex, still shouting, “And you! You're his brother! You're supposed to take care of him! Jesus Christ Alex, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

She's a small woman, but loud, with reading glasses on a chain around her neck. If Kurt had to guess, he'd put her in her mid-thirties, but not more than ten years older than him. Still, mutants age differently, he knows, more slowly.

“Cecilia, no one realized how bad it was,” Ororo interrupts smoothly, her hands up in a placating manner. “Scott's always been prone to migraines due his powers, we never even thought the two things could be linked. None of us are trained for psychological-”

“You live with a telepath!” She cuts Ororo off impatiently, gesturing about the room. “Where is Xavier? How could he not notice this?”

“He's with Cerebro,” Dr. McCoy says, shouldering his way through so that he stands beside Alex, almost in front of him. “Ever since Magneto escaped, and the incident at Alkali Lake, he's been trying to track him down.”

Dr. Reyes glares hard. “ _Incident_.” She says sharply. “Is that what we're calling it? Do you have any idea what that _incident_ did? The ER had more than it could handle for days. People died in the hallway, Hank. Car accidents, construction mishaps, people falling down the stairs, heart attacks, aneurysms, Christ, Hank, we had four miscarriages in the first hour _alone_. That wasn't an incident, Hank, that was an act of global terrorism that makes everything else he's ever done look like robbing a goddamned candy store!” She ends on almost a scream, and Kurt shrinks down into himself, suitably cowed by her rage. 

“Stryker started it.” Logan reminds her, as he looks up at Kurt suddenly, eyes dark and piercing. “Treating mutants like weapons, like toys. Using his own son to kill us all.” Kurt's stomach twists guiltily even now, even knowing there was nothing he could do to fight off Jason Stryker's influence. 

“I was just lucky I wasn't in the middle of surgery. I was scrubbing up.” She frowns. “My patient died on the table.” Her eyes catch on him for the first time, and he withdraws further into himself, afraid she's going to find something to shout at him about now. Maybe she knows what he did, he thinks with horror. “Oh,” she says, instead of anything louder. She actually looks a little embarrassed. “Hello there.”

“ _Guten tag_ ,” he replies, the German coming to his tongue more easily in face of a stranger. 

She frowns, looks around at the others, and seems to still be confused. “Do you speak English?” 

“Cecilia,” Ororo quite obviously welcomes the distraction he brings, “This is Kurt, the one I told you about.” She crosses the room to him, taking him by the elbow and guiding him in a bit more forcefully than he likes. He's not comfortable in the room, but he goes easily enough, if only to appease Ororo. “Kurt, this is Dr. Cecilia Reyes.” 

“Pleased to meet you,” the doctor says, reaching out and taking one of his hands in both of hers, shaking it firmly. She has strong hands, and if she's surprised by his strange ones, she doesn't show it. “I've been looking forward to meeting you, actually, ever since Ororo told me about what Stryker did to you. I was hoping you'd let me do a more thorough biopsy of the area, and maybe a few -” 

“Cecilia.” Ororo smiles, as Kurt frowns over the word, trying to figure out what it means. “There will be plenty of time for that later, won't there?” 

There's a silent conversation he can't understand between the two women, and then Dr. Reyes says, “Of course.” She turns to Alex. “You and I need to have a conversation, Alex, sooner rather than later, if you please, and preferably before Sage gets here.” 

“Right.” Alex follows when she crooks a finger, and the two leave, Dr. McCoy hesitating for only a moment before following them both down the hall, towards the elevators. 

Kurt waits until all three are out of earshot before he asks, “What is wrong with Scott?” 

“Doctor thinks he needs a break.” Logan answers, shrugging. “Jean's death hit him hard.” 

“She was just upset, is all.” Ororo says, before Kurt can question just why that needed such raised voices. “Dr. Reyes and Jean were close, in their own way, and she feels we should have told her sooner.” She frowns. “But Dr. Reyes works for SHIELD, like Alex, and there are...well...” Ororo trails off, seemingly trying to find the right way to say something.

“Can't trust SHIELD as far as you can throw them when it comes to Omega level mutants.” Logan is already lighting a cigar, face twisted in a frown. “Fury likes to talk a big game, but SHIELD's only got one priority in mind, and that's whatever is best for them. Not like they even liked Jean.” 

“It's not quite that clear-cut,” Ororo argues quietly, her hand still on Kurt's elbow as she glares at Logan. “SHIELD has never been at ease with the way the Professor and the school operate, especially when you take into consideration how closely tied Magneto and the school were in the early days,” which makes sense, to Kurt, he supposes. He wonders of Mortimer knows about SHIELD, what he thinks. 

But then, Mortimer doesn't seem to really trust anyone. Maybe he would only see it as more humans trying to control mutants. “But you did not tell Dr. Reyes her friend was dead.” Kurt says slowly, struggling to come to terms with both viewpoints. “It seems cruel.”

Ororo's face softens, and she squeezes his elbow gently. “We told her as soon as we thought it was safe for her to know. Jean wasn't just our friend, Kurt. She meant a lot to the mutant world, and we had to have a way to present the story that wouldn't let anyone turn her into a martyr, a rallying point for more violence between mutants and humans.” 

“Yeah, can't let the humans think they've got something to feel guilty for.” Logan mutters around his cigar, flicking up his eyebrows in a way that seems to dare Ororo to comment. He's looking for a fight, but Kurt thinks there's been quite enough of that. For pity's sake, they let the children hear that, and who knows what else. The last thing they need is more instability, and while Kurt won't pretend Logan isn't intimidating, he will not allow them to upset the little ones.

“One must always strive for the solution that leads to the least bloodshed.” Kurt reminds him, though he doesn't think Logan much cares about his opinion, or God's. It's not an argument though, so he waits to see just what Logan says in reply. 

It's disappointing, of course. “Yeah?” Logan raises his eyebrows, mocking Kurt. “That what your God says? 'Cause see, I remember some parts of your good book that aren't so good.” 

“The Bible was written by men,” Kurt says, bristling despite himself. He doesn't like how dismissive Logan is, how rude. Mortimer doesn't believe either, but he still manages a modicum of respect, and Ororo believes in a goddess, yet she still lets Kurt and the rest of the students exist in peace in the house. It is only Logan who cannot even simply ignore it. And if he's this rude to Kurt, an equal in the house, Kurt doesn't want to imagine how he sneers at someone like Sooraya. “And men are flawed. Men hate. Sometimes, their love for God was not enough to let go of that hate.” He crosses his arms over his chest, pulling away from Ororo's touch, defensive against Logan. 

“You're so full of it.” Logan shakes his head, flicking ash from the end of his cigar without regard for the carpet or floor. “You and your Christian bullshit. And even after everything Stryker did, to all of us, to those kids, you're still going to say something about turning the other cheek,”

“'Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you, bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you'.” Kurt replies calmly, keeping himself in check. He will not rise to the bait, he tells himself. He will be calm, and he will not let Logan treat people like this. “What they did was wrong. Hurting children, killing innocents, experimenting on people. All of it was wrong, but they will answer to God, not to me.” A part of him he does not like hopes they will pay for they did, but even now, even angry and still hurting, he can't help but hope there is something in their souls worth saving. “Do not look to me for justification for violence. Dr. Grey will not be your martyr, and neither will I.” 

It's time for him to leave the room, that much he knows. Logan is hurting, and looking for a reason. Ororo is not too pleased with him either, but then, Ororo is full of righteous fury for the pains suffered by the children she loves, for the loss of the friend she held dear, and for the loss of the boy she cared for. Like Logan, there is no room in her heart for forgiveness yet, and Kurt must respect that, if he expects respect for his beliefs.

Besides that, he still needs to get back to the children. They were upset by the shouting, and they probably need reassurance. 

His students do a very good job of pretending they were not in fact still listening, all innocent confusion when he pops back in to perch atop his desk. But he sees the lines of worry around their mouths, their eyes, sees the way Jubilee yanks on her bracelets, the way Theresa twists her hair around her fingers and stares hard at her desk. 

This is such a mess, he thinks sadly. They are too young for this, too young to bear such a heavy burden. They're already all so tired. He knows the feeling, and sometimes, he wants nothing more than to leave, hide somewhere and never think of this brewing war again.

Because Mortimer is right, he suddenly knows, as he looks around the classroom. Mortimer is completely right, there is a war coming. These children cannot take much more, and they are some of the most sheltered of their kind. If the humans push any more, demand any more, of their people, they will stop lying down. They will step up as one, and they will fight back, and it will be war. A horrific war that will see far too much bloodshed, and Kurt, perhaps because of where he's from and who he grew up with, knows better than anyone how many innocents die in war.

He looks at these children, and wonders, twenty years from now, how many of them will sleep beneath the earth. 

He can't stand the thought.

“Professor Wagner?” Sooraya asks cautiously, her slim hands folded primly on the desk in front of her. “Is everything alright?” 

No, he corrects himself, Sooraya knows as well. How could he forget that she's seen too much for her age, that she's been persecuted for more than just being a mutant. Sooraya knows what war will bring, and he's sorry for that. 

“We have three new teachers coming to us.” He says, his tail winding around over his shoulder anxiously. “Dr. Cecilia Reyes, Ms. Tessa Sage, and Mr. Jean-Paul Beaubier.” He thinks he's remembering his name correctly, and even though he knows Sage isn't Tessa's surname, he feels odd calling her by just her Christian name. He struggles to remember what Ororo said they were teaching, and hopes he can at least get the gist of it. “Dr. Reyes will be taking over Dr. Grey's classes. I don't know how many of you had classes with her.”

He sees the ones who look away, and his heart breaks for them. These children depend so much on this school for a sense of family, for substitutes for parents that they are either separated from, or never really had. To lose one so suddenly, it is unthinkable for their age. 

“She will also be offering a few more classes in the advanced sciences, and she will be teaching an,” he stumbles, trying to remember the correct English, “EMT course.” He can't remember what it stands for, and he hopes it's right. “And a first aid course. These will now be required.” 

Sooraya raises her hand, and he nods at her. “Professor Wagner, can we have special circumstances?” Right, he thinks, Sooraya cannot remove her veil in front of strange boys or in public, nor can she touch them. 

“We will arrange something for those who need them.” He says, determined to follow through on that. “Mr. Beaubier will be offering more advanced French courses, new physical courses, and a writing course, for your art credit.” He bites his lip, the fang on his right digging in a little. “Ms. Sage will be offering computer courses, but she will mostly be working on the school, so I do not know how many slots she will offer.” 

“So,” one boy, Marcus, shifts uncomfortably, and asks what they all so clearly want to. “Is everything alright? With the teachers?”

Kurt tries to find the right words, and settles for a version of the truth. Maybe the other teachers are comfortable lying to the students, but he is not, not when they are this old, and so in need of it. “Dr. Reyes arrived today, as we all heard. She was very concerned about things, and very upset. It has nothing to do with any of you though, and you should not worry over it. No teacher in this school will ever shout at you like that, and if they do, you are to come to me immediately.” He looks around, at the faces becoming so beloved to them. “This school is a safe place for you, you know that, and if you do not, please trust me. I know what it is like to be afraid, and I know you worry that what happened will happen again.”

“They got in.” Jubilee says, and he remembers the first time he met her, down in that cell, wrapped in a blanket with another child clinging to her. “They got in, and took us out of our beds, and no one stopped them.” 

“I know,” he admits. “I was in that place too. They took me from where I slept. They,” he almost stops, but keeps going. “They experimented on me as well. They were cruel, and they were wrong to do what they did. But now we know that we are not as secret as we would like, and that is why more adults are coming. To protect you. It is our job to keep you all safe, and we will do our best.” 

Sooraya again raises her hand, and he looks at her, tilting his head. “What counts as safe?” She asks. 

He narrows his eyes, and thinks of Logan, thinks of how Logan made him feel, how his careless anger might make Sooraya feel. “Never feeling like you are less than anyone else here. Do not let anybody at this school hurt you, please. Tell me, if you are afraid to tell anyone else.” 

Like Rogue, telling no one but him that Dr. McCoy was making her uncomfortable. Would she have suffered in silence had he not been here? Were any of them suffering now? 

Another boy, Roberto, raises his hand, and speaks when acknowledged. “When are we going to be allowed outside again?” 

Another issue he apparently must handle. “I will try to get your privileges back.” They can't stay cooped up in the mansion anymore. He understands the caution, but it's not good for them. Perhaps when Jean-Paul gets here, they can work something out between them, some kind of outdoor schedule so that the children can always be out with an adult. He wants them free, but he wants them safe, and they need to find that line.

“Is,” Jubilee stumbles, and looks around. “Christ, guys, someone has to ask. Is Mr. Summers okay?” 

“Jubilee,” Kurt says, trying to deter her, but she presses on.

“No, don't you lie to us too. You're always teaching his classes now, and he keeps getting those headaches, and he's never in the garage anymore, never, and he never smiles or laughs or says anything and he looks like he's not sleeping, and-”

“Jubes,” someone hisses, but to no avail, as the girl continues frantically.

“Mr. Summers is the one who got me out of my house. He's the one who taught me how to use my powers.” 

Kurt sighs, and tries to find a way to say what needs to be said. “Mr. Summers lost the woman he loved. Sometimes, when that happens, when we lose someone so close to us, we need time to ourselves, time to remember and mourn and heal. Mr. Summers is doing that, and all of you must respect his wishes. I know it feels like rejection, but he does not mean it this way.” 

“But is he okay?” She asks. 

“As okay as one can be expected to be,” Kurt hedges, hoping he hasn't said too much. 

The bell rings, startling them all. 

“Class dismissed. No homework tonight, alright? Maybe, if I can get another hand, we can have some time outside tonight.” It's still cold, but not too cold, not if they bundle up, and it snowed last night. If he can get another teacher, maybe they can organize something.

They at least look cheered at that, and rush out to their next classes. 

He's sorting through his papers when he realizes he's not alone. There's a tall, dark-haired white man in the doorway, watching him with some amusement in his eyes. Kurt is wondering if this is a running theme of the older students, spying on the new teachers. 

“Hello,” he nods politely. 

The man is very handsome, he notices, as he moves into the room, but he's obviously noticed it too, from the confident set to his shoulders. “So, you're Ororo's newest refugee,” he says aloud, and Kurt's tail twists in annoyance at being classified as such. “Kurt Wagner, like the composer.” He's heard the joke before. He's not amused.

“And you are?” 

The man smiles, and to Kurt's chagrin, actually flicks his tail. “Jean-Paul. Judging from that little talk, you've obviously heard about me. Only good things, I hope.” 

“I have not heard much of anything.” Kurt answers honestly, cautious of the way Jean-Paul circles him. “Only what you're teaching, and that you are Ororo's friend.” 

“Yeah,” Jean-Paul says. “I am. And so are you. So I think you and me are almost friends already.”

Kurt doesn't agree, but he attempts to smile politely, as he replies, “Maybe.” 

“Heard you telling them you needed another hand for some outdoor time. I wouldn't mind helping you out with that. The great outdoors and all.” This at least warms Kurt to him. He's a little too close for comfort still, but if he's Ororo's friend, he cannot be a bad person. “Bet you'd be great in a snowball fight, huh?”

He brightens at the prospect. “My side always won, when I was in the circus.” 

“We'll have to test that, won't we?” Jean-Paul says, and now he really is too close, too far in Kurt's personal space. The only people who come this close to him nowadays are Rogue...and Mortimer. 

Oh, Kurt thinks, surprised. 

“I have a boyfriend, Jean-Paul.” He says, pulling his tail from his grasp. 

He quirks an eyebrow, flirtatious he sees now, with growing embarrassment. The only person that's ever flirted with him is Mortimer, really, and he's never learned how to demur from an unwanted advance. “We'll just have to see about that too, won't we?”

To Kurt's shame, he blushes.

 

♦

 

Mort watches through an exhale of smoke, as he rests his mouth against his hand, cigarette still pinched between his fingers. The soft skin of where his thumb joins to the rest of his hand allows the knob of the knuckle to push against his teeth. He exhales again, then takes another hit, his sharp eyes taking in the scene.

In the level below the balcony he stands on, Mystique at his right, Pyro, his arm out of the sling, but still bandaged, stands with his uninjured arm extended, Mortimer's pack on his back. The kid glances up, at Mortimer, a question in his eyes, and Mortimer nods. 

The kid closes his eyes and swallows heavily, clearly afraid. 

“Open your eyes,” Mortimer says, from their post. Pyro obeys, his hand still shaking. “I didn't do all that damn work for you to waste my bloody time, kid.” 

His arm steadies, and he fires, literally, a straight burst of flame that misses the target by two meters at least. 

“Fucking Christ,” Mortimer swears, as Mystique frowns distastefully. “How hard is it to hit a damn target? With _fire_?”

“I told you, this is a waste of time.” She dismisses, but Mortimer disagrees. 

“Kid's got power. He just needs to learn.” He shakes his head, and takes another hit, exhaling blue smoke out. Mystique raises her eyebrows at him, warning him off blowing it anywhere near her. “Christ, what is Xavier teaching them? Mary Had A Little Lamb?”

“He doesn't teach them how to fight.” She replies, unimpressed with his temper. “You know that.” 

“Why the hell not? He's got his little group out there fighting this war, and he's not teaching them how to fight?” Mortimer swears continuously in French for a second, getting it out of his system before he snaps at the kid. “We have to start from the ground-up with him, at this rate.” 

“I hope you're not including me in that 'we',” Mystique drawls, inspecting her nails. 

Mortimer rolls his eyes. “Oh, you want me to get Domino to help?”

She drops the pretense at nonchalance, and glares. “You're not serious.” 

“I don't have time to do it by myself.” Mortimer reminds her sharply, mentally going over everything else he needs to get done this week alone. The exoskeleton he built has a weak spot in the spinal area, where it's wearing too easily. He needs to find a better material, or scrap the idea altogether, like he so badly wants to at this point. He never wanted to build the damn thing in the first place, had known it would be a bad combination with the boss' powers. He's manipulating the metal when he's using it. 

Maybe ceramic of some kind, he theorizes, as he watches Pyro psych himself up. 

“Pyro, how many times do I have to tell you not to waste my fucking time?” He asks, what little patience he possesses wearing thin with the kid, and the work he needs to do. He should just pass him off on Domino and hope he comes out in mostly one piece. “Either you show me something worthwhile, or-”

He never has to finish. As soon as he starts the threat, Pyro snaps to attention, raises his hand, and shoots another plume of fire, right at the target. This time, his aim is true, and he blackens it. 

Mortimer whistles approvingly, as Mystique watches more neutrally than her previous annoyance, which is borderline approval with her. “Told you,” he preens, taking a drag. “He's going to be useful. We just have to toughen him up a bit.” 

“Only if it's you doing it, I suspect.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What's that mean?”

“Our little firebug admires you.” She says, slowly, like he's thick. “Quite a bit.”

Mortimer scoffs. “Bollocks. Kid's looking for friends, is all.” 

His mobile buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out and checks the message, pleased to see it's from Kurt. He misses him in the week. 

He's less pleased to read the message. 

_-The new teacher is flirting with me.-_

He doesn't like that. At all. It must show in his face, because Mystique asks, with just a hint of a smirk, “Trouble in paradise already, Toad?” 

“Sod off.” He mutters, not sure how to reply. His first instinct is anger and possessiveness, but Kurt won't like that. He needs to calm down. Fuck, Kurt just told him about it, and most wouldn't do that. It's not like he's going to just run off with the first person to show him interest. Kurt's not like that, he knows it.

He'd at least end it with him first.

He doesn't like that thought.

He puts his mobile away, to avoid temptation, and stubs what's left of his cigarette out on the concrete of the balcony. He wants another, but he's got to start cutting down. He just bought this carton over the weekend, and he's already gone through two packs. It's only Tuesday, for chrissakes. “Where's Domino?” He asks, choosing to think about something else. “I haven't seen her since yesterday.”

“Probably dismembering small animals.” She replies dryly, watching as Pyro adjusts the tube on his arm. 

It's not sitting right, Mortimer sees. He needs to adjust it, change the way it settles around the elbow. It's twisting in a way that's cutting into his bicep, not how it should. He must have misjudged the circumference of his arm there. 

The kid hits the target again though, his bad arm clutched tight to his side as he does so. Then the third, but it's a little off. He doesn't have enough strength in his arm to keep it raised long. They'll have to work on that, get him training like the rest of them. He's not on Mystique or his physical level, but he could be close to Domino's, maybe. He doesn't know that he wants to start him on weights, and maybe throw off the balance of his arms though. They'll need to wait til he's a bit more healed. He'll have to look up a good training schedule for him, maybe get him running with him, if he can drag his arse out of bed in the morning. 

“Do you think he'll be able to run soon, his arm like that?” He asks Mystique. 

She shrugs. “You and I could. But I don't know. He's never been hurt like this before. You know the first one is always the worst.” 

“Yeah,” he agrees, watching the kid. “That's enough, get back up here. I need to fix the thing.” 

Pyro stops, and starts towards the entrance, but stops, when he sees something they don't. Out of the tunnel comes Feral, and Mortimer rolls his eyes when he sees why Pyro stopped. Poor kid's been getting quite an anatomy lesson since he came here, the amount of women they have walking around without a stitch on. 

At least Feral's covered in fur. 

“Feral,” he calls, annoyed. “Put something on, no one's interested in that.” 

She gives him a look that could charitably be called hateful. He always got on better with Thornn. “No one's interested in you, but I have to look at your ugly face every time I come here.” 

“No one asked you to come, bitch.” He replies, giving in and getting another cigarette out, lighting it with only a little guilt. 

“Charming as ever,” she purrs, turning her eyes to Pyro. The boy looks away, anywhere but her, and he doesn't blame him. Mortimer's not interested in the slightest, and even he gets uncomfortable looking at her. She's furry, yeah, but it doesn't cover all her bits like Mystique's scales do. He hopes Thornn is wearing clothes, Christ. “And who are you?” 

“Pyro,” Mortimer thinks he hears the kid stutter, as he turns to look up at Mortimer helplessly.

Taking pity on the kid, he boosts himself up over the side, hovering on the edge before leaping off, his cigarette tight between his fingers. He lands in an easy crouch, and stands straight, taking a hit while he strides towards her. Her sister is coming up behind her, and thankfully she's got her damned clothes on. It's not much, but it covers what Mortimer doesn't want to see. 

“Get dressed, Feral.” He orders. “Unless you want to bunk with Sabretooth.”

“Why should I? Because he's uncomfortable? I'm comfortable like this.” It's a bold-faced lie, but he can't quite call her on it. She has a point, but damn. She's always such a pain in the arse. 

“Then freeze,” he dismisses, as he acknowledges Thornn. She's dressed and clean, unlike her sister, who smells like a dog rolled in muck. “You still alive then?”

“Yes,” she says, smirking. “And so are you, I see, surprisingly.” 

“Why does everyone always say that?” He muses low, accepting the kiss she gives on his cheek without a scowl. He's too used to it now. 

“Anyone whose spent a day with you is surprised by it, _Sapito_.” She says, using the Spanish for him, like Riptide always does. “You look better than I thought you would, at least. I worried when I heard you had been picked up from Domino. She says you were bad off.”

He shrugs, not wanting to go into it, not with Feral present. He's honestly more surprised than anything that Thornn is back with her. They hadn't parted well, last time. “I'm alright.” He says, not really a lie, but she gives him a look, all the same. 

“And who did you say this was?” She asks, turning to Pyro, who seems a lot more comfortable looking at her than Feral. 

Mortimer steps to him, and elbows the kid a little to get him to focus again. “This is Pyro. Newest recruit.” 

“You look a little young to be a revolutionary,” Thornn says, looking him up and down, taking in the injury. For a brief second, she meets Mortimer's eyes, but he subtly shakes his head, telling her not to ask. He'll tell her what the fucker did later, and remind her to keep her distance, and keep her damn sister away from him. Feral's too cocky again, and even if she annoys the fuck out of him, he doesn't want Sabretooth to humble her. 

“Magneto thinks I'm old enough.” Pyro replies, a little too waspishly to be respectful, and she notices, from the way her eyes narrow. It's not easy to meet them if you're not used to them, her yellow cat's eyes with the intelligence behind them, and Pyro's not up for it. He looks away, and Toad's irritated by the action. 

He's trying to help the kid out here, but if he's going to be a disrespectful little shit to people, he's really wasting his time. 

“Look at people when you're talking to them.” He says, and the kid's head snaps up, his eyes meeting Mortimer's. Mortimer's disapproval must mean a lot more than he thinks, because the kid draws his shoulders together and looks Thornn in the face. He's shaking, just a little, but he's doing as he's told. “This is Thornn, Pyro. Been around in this Brotherhood a lot longer than you, so show her some respect.” 

“Hearing you talk about respect, never thought I'd see the day,” Thornn says, laughing, as she watches her sister out of the corner of her eyes, Feral prowling around the range. It's new, another bunker the boss had cleared out and had Mortimer equip in the old military base. “She's behaving.” She says, meeting his eyes. “But don't turn your back on her.”

“Cheers,” he says, rolling his eyes as he takes a hit. This is just what he needs. “Alright kid, come on, let's get that thing refitted.” He starts down the tunnel, Pyro following. 

“So,” Pyro begins, but Mortimer shakes his head. He waits until they're back in his work area, and alone. He'd be able to smell Feral if she followed, and Thornn won't leave her sister alone with Mystique in the room. She and her sister may not be on good terms, but she wants her alive, and Mystique doesn't. 

“Listen to me good,” he says, sure they're alone, and Pyro's paying attention. “Thornn's alright, but don't you ever put yourself in a room with Feral by yourself, yeah? You stay with someone at all times, and if you are alone with her, you better have a light, and you had better be ready to kill her. She's not right in the head, hasn't been for awhile.”

The kid is slowly getting his pack off, and Mortimer watches, not helping. He needs to do it on his own. “You're the only one I trust anyway.” 

Mortimer raises his eyebrows, and inhales, exhales smoke. “Am I now?”

“Yeah.” The kid says, nodding. 

He's not sure what to think of that. “I've got chores.” He says, instead of a reply, and it isn't a lie anyway. “Rest your arm, work on the program I gave you yesterday.” Simple coding practice, enough to keep him busy for the time being. 

The kid looks a little let down, but he nods, and does as he's told. 

Mortimer sits, and opens his sketchbook. His newest design for Frost is worked out on the page, a system that links into her powers specifically. This way, it recognizes anyone her mind places in the safe category, and keeps out strangers and dangerous sorts.

Even Xavier couldn't keep the government out, he thinks, a little frightened despite himself. All that money, and they still got in, and took kids. _Kids_. Mortimer can admit he's not the best sort, but he doesn't hurt kids. Never kids. And he doesn't know that he could do what they did to anyone. Not even humans.

Christ, every human on Earth. He doesn't even like them. He doesn't, and he has every right to hate them. 

But his mum and dad, their neighbors. They didn't deserve to die. 

And kids. All those human kids. 

He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray, and tips his chair back, so he can look up into the rafters. 

He lets himself fall back on all four legs with a thump and gets his phone out, to look at Kurt's message. 

_-You losing interest in me then?-_ He hopes it comes across as playful and not angry. Christ, he just wants to be nice to Kurt, but sometimes he wonders if he's lacking something fundamental in his personality, something that lets him be kind naturally. 

It takes a minute, but then he gets a reply, _-Never-_ , and something inside lightens.

He smiles at his phone, but looks up quickly to see Magneto, watching him. “Sir?”

“Careful there, Toad.” He says, and then he's gone, heading back the way Mortimer came, probably to see Thornn and Feral. 

He thinks he might be long past careful. 

 

♦

 

He looks skinny, not as bad as Christmas, but still not healthy. Not himself. He hasn't been sleeping much either, to judge by the dark circles under his eyes and the twitchy way he's tapping the table. 

And his fucking hair, Christ. She hadn't been a fan of the spikes, but the mohawk is just overkill. He looks like one of the Morlocks now.

“What did you do to your hair?” She demands, when she slides into the seat across from him. “You look ridiculous.”

He leans over the table, all bad posture and a sneer. He has a new piercing in his ear too, at the top of it. “Panda.” He says, pointedly, and without elaboration.

She kicks him in the shins under the table. “It was in _style_ ,” she hisses. “You're too old to be running around looking like a...a...,” she waves her hand, trying to elaborate, while he raises his eyebrows in disdainful amusement. Her attention is drawn back to his ears, and the distinctly not-hoops in them. Instead, they're black, metal, and round. “What is in your ears?” She hisses.

He shrugs. 

She kicks him again. Just because. 

“Fucking cunt,” he swears, pulling his legs up into his side of the booth. It's a curious way to sit, not inhuman, no showing off his too-flexible spine and shoulders, but not normal either. Not like there's anyone in the 24/7 diner who cares, just a few tired truckers and wait staff, the bus boys sitting on the counter to watch a _Law & Order_ rerun. “How are the boys?”

“Asking for you.” Every other hour, like clockwork. “How's the new boyfriend?” 

He scowls.

She raises her eyebrows. 

“Coffee?” The waitress asks, startling her. “Coffee, dear?” 

She'd rather have tea, a preference developed from far too long in Scotland, but she's not stupid enough to order any from a place like this. She'll take her chances with the coffee, and Mortimer does the same, though he adds on an order for fries with an obnoxious amount of condiments on them. 

“That's disgusting.” She says, but refuses to be distracted. “Who is he? The guy?”

“SHIELD doesn't have anything on him, do they?” He drawls, obviously pleased and obnoxious about it.“He isn't any of your business. Leave it alone.” 

Wanda huffs. “You kind of made him SHIELD's business when you started screwing him. You know you're on Fury's radar, especially after that stunt in Virginia.” She pauses, frowns at his complete lack of repentance. “After the stunt in _Egypt_.”

Now he shifts, less arrogant and more abashed. “You saw that?”

She'd only poured over every single file SHIELD had on the Brotherhood, her friends especially. Mortimer's had been thick, full of suspected movements, attempts at deliberating his country of origin, the telling DNA sample, and file upon file upon file of altercation reports. Egypt's file had been absorbing, and heartbreaking. 

His face is stony, as he accepts the coffee and fries put in front of him. 

“You know you went overboard.” She says, quietly, into her own coffee.

“SHIELD didn't see what they were doing.” He replies sharply. “That lot, _Fury_ , think they're all so high and mighty, but those bastards were selling mutants to fucking warlords, and SHIELD wasn't there. I was.” He pushes one fry around the plate, gathering up cheese and sour cream and bacon before eating it, the thought of the grease in just the one enough to turn Wanda's stomach. “Men like that don't stop. They never will. And what would SHIELD do, detain them? So someone else can just come and fill the space?” Another fry, as she pours a liberal amount of milk in her coffee. “I didn't like doing it. But I made an example of them. So no one else got any ideas about starting the business back up.” 

She wants to argue, and a huge part of her knows that what he did out there was morally wrong. That there are better ways. But he's not completely wrong in the practical sense, when it comes down to it. SHIELD can't be everywhere at once, can only fix one thing at a time. Mortimer's solution had been like stacking sandbags, a temporary fix that might hold until SHIELD could build a levee. 

She doesn't have to like it, but she can acknowledge there have been results. SHIELD hasn't detected any more slave-trading of mutants in the area since he had done it.

“Their solution doesn't work.” He says, with a lot less conviction than he might have had two years ago.

She sighs, shakes her head. “Neither does yours, in the long term.” She reaches across the table, intent on touching him, but when she sees the way he stiffens, she stops, albeit reluctantly. He's feeling defensive, and he never likes being touched when he's in a mood. She has to respect it, if she expects to make any headway tonight. “Fear does not equal acceptance, Mort. We have to stop dividing everything into black and white, if we expect to ever get anywhere with the humans. I'll concede that fringe groups like Friends of Humanity and the MLF will never be reasonable, but people, just regular people, Mort,” now when she reaches out, he lets her take his hand. “We can win them over. We can make the world safe for our children, without bloodshed. Without selling our own souls.” 

There, there she finds a chink in his armor. Mort, her poor Mort, angry and more than a little messed up, but not a killer for love of it. A little Catholic guilt, she suspects, but more than that. The teenage boy she knew once upon a time, the one who had thrown up the first time he'd killed someone, who had hidden himself behind this facade of borderline-psychopath, that boy was growing older, tireder. There was a line around his mouth that hadn't been there before, a heaviness to his eyes that helped him finally look like a man, and not a boy. 

Her poor Mort, broken and too thin on her doorstep.

“We can make it so what happened to you never happens to anyone else again.” 

His black eyes meet hers, as she pushes up his sleeve to show the scars. They make her want to cry, the fact that somebody had done this to him, had done all those things to him. Her Mort, that falls asleep on her couch with Tommy sprawled on top of him half the time. 

“Don't.” He says, shaking his head. “Don't act like I was some innocent they picked off the street. I built that machine. I helped kidnap the girl, hell, I carried her.” 

This is his game. Make himself look harder, colder. 

“Why not make Sabretooth do it? You're the better hand-to-hand fighter. You have quicker reflexes. He should have had the dead weight.” Wanda replies, as he pulls out of her grip, eats another fry defiantly. “You took the girl because you knew Sabretooth couldn't be trusted with her. You knew your machine might kill her, but you didn't want anything else to have to happen to her.” Because Sabretooth would have made death look like a release. 

“And the guards? The X-Men? How you going to explain away that for me, Wanda? You going to tell me your father's brainwashed me? How about all the SHIELD agents I've put down over the years?” He rakes a hand over his buzzed scalp. “Christ, Wanda, don't make excuses for me. I'm a killer. It's what I do. You said it yourself, I'm your father's thug.”

“But you don't have to be.” 

“What else is there for me?” He snaps, pushing the food away and switching to the coffee. “What do you want out of me, Christ, I kept up my end of the bargain, I kept you and the boys safe, and now you're asking more, well, fuck you,” his hands shake as he releases the cup, and she aches to grab on, hold him still. “I don't have anything else to give. I'm stretched too thin as is, I can't be anything else to anyone else, I can't.” 

She ignores caution, and grabs his hands in hers, startling him. He looks up at her, his eyes darker than ever against the circles under them. “I'm not asking you to be anything more, Mort. I'm asking you to let go of this bullshit my father has drummed into your head. You kept me safe, now let me take care of you. I can keep you out of prison, and alive, if you'll just listen to me,”

“I can't.” He says, so quietly she barely hears it. “I can't, Wanda. I've given him ten years, and I believed in it, I think. I still do, sometimes.” He squeezes his eyes shut, but doesn't pull away. “Christ, I'm so bloody tired.” 

“I know,” she says. “Trust me, I know.” She remembers how little he'd slept back when they'd been on the same team, remembers waking at three in the morning for a drink to find him still up and working, face a sickly color in the blue of the computer screens. 

Gently, she releases him, stirs her coffee, and steals a fry. 

“What was it like, when you met Victor?” He asks.

She doesn't even pretend to be surprised. Mort sleeps around, but those pictures had been damn incriminating towards something a bit more involved. She's never seen him touch anyone like that. “You're not going to find your answer by asking other people.” She shakes her head, and settles back in the booth. “You already know, anyway. I mean god, you took him to Liam's.” 

“Liam said to!” He replies, sounding put out about the whole thing. “Then Betsy went spare on me.”

“What do you mean?” Wanda asks, her fingers tightening around her cup. So help her, if Psylocke went too far, she'll have her taken off this mission. She never wanted her on the team to begin with, Betsy's poor temper and control too much of a risk in her mind, especially with Mortimer's susceptibility to it. “What did she do?”

He waves it off, but he winces in sense memory. “She had a go at me.” 

“Did she now?” Oh, she is going to kill Psylocke. She'd specifically told her to stay out of his head, and not just for her own personal comfort. The headaches he gets from her power can put him out of commission for weeks if she's not careful, and Mortimer's in no position to be weak. “Little bitch.”

“She was upset with me.” He says, like that's justification. “She knows it's a bad idea. She knows I should leave him alone, but I just...” he trails off. “I tried. I really tried. I tried to stay away, because I know I'm no good for him. I'm just going to drag him down, but god help me, I couldn't. He was all I could think about, when I wanted peace. Still is. Christ, Wanda, when I'm with him,” he looks down at his coffee, licks his lips and blinks. “When I'm with him, I sleep. I smile. I'm _happy_. I'm never happy, not really, not unless I'm with you and the boys, at home. But when he's with me, when I'm beside him, I feel like everything is easier. I feel like I'm alright.” 

Wanda wishes, with all her heart, that she and her sons could be enough. That no one else had to be dragged into this war her father and Xavier and SHIELD can't help but fight. But she looks at Mortimer, and she knows, like she's always known, that he need more. He needs someone to depend on, who depends on him, who can love him at his worst. And she loves him, she can admit that, but she doesn't love all of him. 

Mort needs love like a flower needs sunlight, and he's starved for it, growing towards this blue-skinned man she saw in the photos. That man is giving him what he needs, and god help them both, the man means it as well. She can't stand the idea pf Mortimer being messed about. 

“What's his name?” She asks, watching her own coffee.

“Kurt.” Mort sounds afraid, almost. “Kurt Wagner.” Unlike her, he pronounces the 'w' like a 'v' almost, the correct accent. She envies how easy it seems for him to pick up languages, the same way he understands machines. She's never had the gift. “Like the composer.” 

“Sometimes, you surprise me with that brain of yours.” She says, quietly marveling at him. He's never even seemed to realize how educated he is, how he knows all these little details most people don't. She wonders if his Kurt notices this too, or maybe he's just as sharp. Maybe he's Mortimer's match, and really, with a name like that, he has a lot to live up to. “What's he do?”

“He's a teacher.” Mortimer sounds a little awed, and she is too. A teacher, she thinks, not a professor. He takes up with the oddest sorts, Mort, but never a teacher, in her experience. “College level, or, shit,”

“High school.” She corrects, before he can tear himself up over it. “It's high school, here, not college.”

“Right.” He nods. “But I think there are younger kids. It's a boarding school.” 

He knows, but he's trying to protect Wagner. As though Wanda doesn't know the only boarding school that would ever employ such a physically mutated mutant in the area is Xavier's school. Intelligent as he is, near genius according to Forge of all people, Mort can be surprisingly dim at times. 

“So he's nice?” 

He nods, and he's either exceptionally happy or tired, because he doesn't say anything as she steals a few more fries, just pushes the plate towards her. He does give a snide, “You're eating bacon, you know,” but that's it. 

Whatever, as long as Victor doesn't find out. He still frowns at the beers her and Mortimer overindulge in, she doesn't need to know how he'll react to bacon. 

“SHIELD can give you amnesty.” She says, when he seems relaxed again. 

“What if I don't want it?” He asks, finishing off his own coffee. “What if I'm alright how I am?”

“You're alright sneaking home? Never seeing the boys whenever you feel like?” She holds his eyes. “Corrine and John miss you so much, you know.” 

Mort steals her coffee, grimacing in disgust at the sugar she's added before drinking it anyway. “I can't have Mum knowing.” 

“And John?”

“You know my dad's not stupid.” He says, like that explains everything. It sort of does. John always asks her if Mort's alright with a bit more caution in his eyes, like he knows something he doesn't want to acknowledge. She ignores, he ignores it, and they go on allowing Corrine to believe her son is really just an engineer. “How is he? He going to the doctor? Taking care of himself?”

“He had a little scare when the Event happened.” When Mort's eyes widen, she's quick to finish. “He just fainted. His heart beat got a little erratic, is all. It's normal again, and he hasn't had any problems since.”

“ _Maman_ said he was fine,” Mort insists, the lapse showing just how worried he really is, and Wanda's sorry for even saying anything. 

“He is fine now. It was just a scare, Mort, I swear, he's fine.” 

Mort huffs, and looks down at the cup. “I should be home with them.”

“And what would you do? You're an engineer, not a doctor.” She reminds him. “Victor and your friend, Tansy, they've both looked them over completely. They're both fine. But they won't be if you bring trouble to their door, and as long as you're with the Brotherhood, that's all you'll do.” 

“You think I don't know that?” He snaps.

“I think you know that better than anyone.” She says, a lot quieter, to keep their conversation private. Whatever is going on on the television is enough to hold the rest of the diner's attention in the dead of night, but she'd rather be safe than sorry. “Please trust me Mort. The SHIELD we knew isn't who they are anymore, not since Fury took the helm. I'm not saying he's nice, or even particularly likeable. But he keeps the place above board, or as above board as they can get, and no one is treated like they're subhuman.” 

“You lot got an army of mutants in there.” He says skeptically. 

“The Morlocks.” She explains. “They're an underground group, non-political. A secret community. They take in physically mutated mutants, or ones who can't hide their powers, usually. Others come in, of course. You saw their tattoos?” He nods. “They all wear them. They're obsessed with rank though, and all the adults wear their rank in their tattoos.”

“That's kind of creepy.” Mortimer sneers, and she raises her eyebrows in agreement. She'd thought she'd be thrilled to find out there was a whole society of mutants, living together openly, but there's something unsettling about the Morlocks. There's a lot of love and community in their group, but she's noticed that their power level seems to play a big part in their roles amongst themselves. “You're an Omega. They like you, then?”

“Hm.” She shrugs, not sure she wants him to know just how much they like her. “I don't like how they defer to Omegas. They treat mutation like a blessing, not like a natural occurrence.” And she doesn't like how they so easily assume an Omega has all the answers. Technically, a physically mutated mutant like Mort, with no kinetic abilities, is ranked as a Beta, a powerful one yes, but just a Beta. Yet Mort is one of the smartest people she knows. Granted, she'd never put him in charge of anything, but she really dislikes the idea that a mutant like Psylocke would have more say than he would in their society. 

“But they listen to Fury?” He asks skeptically.

“Not exactly.” She admits.

“They listen to _you_.” He corrects himself, and he looks just as pleased with the idea as she feels. She hates that Fury's using her as a figurehead, but the Morlocks are too big a resource to lose just because they thought they were better than humans. And they're too prone to violence on their own. They need leadership that can think with a cool head, and if she can't always, Fury certainly can. “Damn it Wanda, you've turned into his puppet. How is that any better than working for Magneto?”

He's not wrong, but she wants to kick him anyway. “Because at least this time, I know I'm working towards something better. A safer world. A world where my boys don't grow up like we did.” Alone, and lonely. 

Mort looks at her for a long moment, then looks around. He doesn't shake his head though, or outright deny anything she just said. The boys are her best bargaining chip here, she knows. Mort doesn't know how to love halfway, and god help her, she's using that fact hard right now. 

The man, Kurt, she's going to have to use him too, and she hates herself a little for it. She feels like her father, but, she justifies, she's not looking to hurt him. She wants to help him in a way no one ever has, not even his parents, by giving him a real purpose. A good one. 

“How does Kurt feel about the Brotherhood?”

It plays out exactly as she feared, as he frowns and looks away from her. 

“You haven't told him anything.” She says, not surprised. “Because you're afraid he'll leave you the second he finds out just what it is you do.” 

“I know what I'm doing is wrong.” He says, and that does surprise her, but then, Mort's always had such a black and white view of right and wrong. “I know. And I'm sorry for it. But every time I tell myself I'm going to stop, that I'm going to let him go, I just can't do it.” 

“Mort,”

“I _tried_.” He insists. 

“I'm sure you did.” 

But Mort doesn't know how to love halfway. 

Her time is up, she realizes, when she feels the tickle in her mind. Has she made any headway at all, she wonders? Or is he still just as set in that self-destructive path her loving father put him on, ten years ago? What could he have been if Fury had found him first, if he'd given Mort another choice? 

She's going to find out, she resolves. 

“I have to go.” She says, standing, as he does the same, throwing a few bills on the table as he does so, without asking or offering, like he always does. “Mort, please, even if you don't come to SHIELD, I'm begging you to at least leave the Brotherhood. Take your schoolteacher home, do your contract work, teach at the university, just,” this isn't the deal Fury offered, but fuck him. This is her friend. “Just please. Find another way.” 

If she had asked last year, he would have a had a smartass comment and an affectionate insult. Maybe she would have sparked him a little, or kicked him. 

Now, he looks at her, and says, “I'll see the boys on their birthday.” 

“Okay,” and to her utter shock, it's him who initiates the hug, pulls her in tight and holds her close. She's so startled, it takes her a second to wrap her arms around him just as fiercely, embrace him like she can keep him safe like he did for her, all those years ago, in her kitchen at home. She holds him and thinks of him and the boys playing their games in the front garden, them attacking him while he played at falling down dead. She thinks of him, young and awkward, holding one of the infant boys, his normally scowling face open with emotions she couldn't name. She thinks of him fixing the fridge when she asked, thinks of the way he looks at his mother and father, the way he looks at her.

And she thinks of him in that picture, how he'd held that man, Kurt. How he'd looked at him.

She holds him tight, and prays she can pull this one off. 

“I love you,” she reminds him, because he needs it. He needs to be reminded that people love him, that he's valued for something other than how quickly he can snap a man's neck, how easily he can kill a room full of guards. “No matter what I say, I love you.”

She does, she really does. She loves him like the twin she couldn't save, like the brother her little boy looks so much like. She couldn't help Pietro, and god, just thinking his name causes a pang in her heart she doesn't think will ever heal. 

But she can help Mort. 

“Love you too.” He says into her shoulder, hiding his face like a little boy, so quiet she wouldn't have heard it if she didn't know to listen for it. 

She doesn't care if they're in the middle of the diner, that maybe one of the busboys or truckers or servers is looking in interest. 

She really doesn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's long.


End file.
